


would it be wrong to try

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 70,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27737500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: After the Hirogen occupation, B’Elanna Torres has some feelings. As she works through them, she finds herself in an increasingly complicated social web.
Relationships: Kathryn Janeway/B'Elanna Torres, Seven Of Nine/Samantha Wildman, Seven of Nine & B'Elanna Torres
Comments: 109
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

They’re all pretty over holodecks for the time being. And even if they weren’t over holodecks, there wouldn’t be enough power available to sustain holodecks anyway. 

The Hirogen had exhausted them physically and technologically and philosophically. And they’re now piecing together whatever resources they still possess to just manage. At first to just manage and then to just function and then to get with it and then to get it together and then to get real and then to get serious. A logical progression.

B’Elanna is not yet at optimal performance after having been beat to all hell in various and sundry scenarios and then as the cherry on top having been holographically pregnant for who knows how long. Regardless, she’s been putting in double shifts. Then triple shifts, occasionally, when she can finagle and bypass the safety protocols. Her stated reasoning is that the ship needs her to get back to running as it should. But the truth is, she’s been avoiding some things. She doesn’t want to get caught up too long in her own brain. And she doesn’t want to see people outside of Engineering.

Especially Tom and especially Janeway.

Nobody’s supposed to have remembered what had happened under the influence of their neural interfaces. But she does. She doesn’t know if her vivid, clear memories are a fluke or if everyone’s just being polite and lying. Either way, it’s all pristine in her brain: her sweet stupid romance with Tom’s clean-cut ancient army hero Bobby Davis; her coercive and transactional relationship with that generic horrible Nazi officer; but more pressingly, her ardent longing for Katrine.

She’d spent the better part of her holographic second trimester in this fucking terrible World War II simulation, and even though the baby had been fake, the hormones had at least seemed real enough. And so she’d been horny as shit for the entirety of her stay in this holoprogram. She’d actively hated her fake baby’s fake father—she’d been mercifully dropped into this program well after the act that had created the fake baby so at least she doesn’t have to deal with that specific trauma. It wasn’t so disconcerting that she’d sold her body to a Nazi for miscellaneous intel. B’Elanna‘s always been a pragmatist, has always been able to accept her worst inclinations especially if they’d been employed in service to a greater good. And she supposes that any iteration of her would be the same way. The thing that sticks and stings so much is Brigitte’s yearning for Katrine. Her character had been so devoted to and so in love with the Resistance leader and yet always been kept at a professional arm’s length. B’Elanna as Brigitte absolutely burning with desire for a woman in command over her, a woman she couldn’t have. And ain’t that a kick in the head.

It had made sense for Brigitte. French orphan finding her place in the Resistance, latching onto any authority figure, bonus points for sexy white tuxedos. But it also makes sense for the real actual B’Elanna. Her Captain’s Starfleet ideals chafing against her own Maquis standards, not to mention all the soft touches to forearms and shoulder blades Janeway had so generously provided. Janeway and Katrine are so tactile, and B’Elanna and Brigitte are so desperate to be touched.

It must have been some joke to the Hirogen. Some joke to have a window—though who knows how that had come about—into everyone’s personality and then to manipulate those personalities to their own benefit in the most entertaining ways. B’Elanna wonders what about her might have been most entertaining, what about her might have been compelling, especially in the confines of such a narrative that they’d decided to explore.

The Voyager crew had been prey to the Hirogen, yes, but they had had interior lives because the Hirogen had needed them to in order to be worthy of the hunt. And in Saint Claire, the Captain as her Katrine persona had been leading the underground resistance movement and had possessed a complicated backstory and numerous fraught relationships. B’Elanna as her Brigitte persona had been similarly entrenched.

Maybe it had been a joke to the Hirogen, or maybe they hadn’t known and had simply written code that had extrapolated and had grown heuristically on its own. Either way. The whole mess infuriates her for so many reasons—the violation of it all, the manipulation of it all.

She riles herself up about different aspects when she’s alone with her thoughts, but the thing that gets to her most is the thing that’s an immediate concern. It’s also the thing she has the least business getting riled up about.

Katrine, cool and confident in her white tuxedo, had been fucking Mlle de Neuf, cool and confident in her silver gown.

The way they had looked at each other over the piano. The way they had interacted in hushed tones in dark corners. There had been no question. If one had known what to look for.

So. Now. B’Elanna can hardly look at Janeway or Seven without seeing what had been in that artificial but still so real world. And B’Elanna can hardly look at either of them without a certain amount of jealousy.

B’Elanna has always harbored a secret and stupid crush on Janeway. That first day when Janeway had destroyed the Caretaker’s Array and B’Elanna had been so angry and so turned on at her audacity. That time that Janeway had overlooked her violence toward Carey and had decided she had been the best prospect for chief engineer because of her competence and intelligence and their shared love of theoretical science. When Tuvok had stolen technology on her behalf and Janeway had reprimanded them both. That last one, oof deluxe. She’d thought she would die of it. It had been the perfect storm of wanting to kiss the woman who had been dressing her down. Janeway in that moment had been so disappointed and so empathetic and so beautiful and so exactly her type.

But now it’s rather more than just that. There’s the initial attraction and the further connection and the mutual flirtation. Interactions building on previous interactions. They’ve shared a lot, but she must admit that Janeway has never invited her into a private holoprogram. Seven, therefore, has seen something she hasn’t. Sure, a severed Borg necessitates a lot of attention to encourage that Borg into being interested in humanity. But shouldn’t a half Klingon Maquis asshole require the same (or perhaps more) rehabilitation?

She tries to drown her thoughts out with work and with workouts at the gym on Deck 3. She piles more weight on for her deadlifts, executes more reps than are reasonable for her dumbbell row.

She’s cooling down from a grueling set of 21s when Janeway sidles up beside her at the mirror, limply holding a 20-pound barbell.

“Thought I might find you here,” Janeway says.

“Well I guess you thought right,” B’Elanna says as she crosses in front of Janeway to rack her 50-pound barbell. Janeway drops her weight on the mat at her feet and stands at B’Elanna’s shoulder, says,

“Are you ok?”

“‘Ok’ is subjective.”

“I know that,” Janeway says. Her eyes are so searching and focused as she looks at and into B’Elanna. “I very well know that. But. Are you ok in relation to you?”

B’Elanna could lie. She could say yeah she’s fine. But there’s something in Janeway’s gaze, and she says honestly,

“Not exactly. But I’m working on it.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Janeway says. And B’Elanna can’t help but believe that Janeway is offering out of kindness. She’s been so angry that Janeway had fucked Seven in WWII that she’s almost forgotten that Janeway would most probably not fuck anyone in real life because of her Starfleet ethics. She’s almost forgotten that regardless of any attraction, Janeway’s main goal is always crew cohesion. She’s almost forgotten that a lot of her jealousy is grounded in holodeck nonsense. She says finally,

“Spot me on chest press.” Janeway nods and follows her to where she adjusts the weights and then lies down on the bench, positions her hands on the bar. Janeway barely, delicately touches her fingers to the bar, and then she says,

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Torres.”

One, two, three.

“Sloppy! Keep your back straight,” Janeway says.

Four, five, six.

“Good. Good! You’ve got this.”

Seven, eight.

“Two more. You can do this. Push through. Breathe.”

Nine, ten.

The clink of metal on metal as B’Elanna replaces the bar in its notch. She’s lying there panting, and Janeway’s face is above her. Janeway says,

“Is that what you wanted in a spotter?”

“Yeah,” B’Elanna says, still winded.

Janeway traces B’Elanna’s topmost forehead ridge with a fingertip, says,

“Glad to hear it.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Your bangs were wonky,” Janeway had said—with that half-smile she does when she’s pleased with herself—by way of explanation for the touch to B’Elanna’s forehead, but of course B’Elanna doesn’t have bangs per se. Perhaps there really had been some hair out of place, and currently B’Elanna’s not allowing herself to contemplate too many possibilities about the interaction.

Not allowing herself to contemplate, unfortunately, does not preclude phrases and looks on faces and the memory of the feeling of fingertips just popping into her brain without her permission.

It’s two nights later, and she’d gotten kind of banged up in a shuttle crash on the day between that night and now. Nothing serious, but her hip had been out of whack, and after the Doctor had fixed her up, he’d prescribed walking and had further recommended she lay off barbell squats for a few weeks. Body weight squats had been deemed acceptable, but B’Elanna has a reputation to uphold. She will not be doing squats without extra weight in a public arena. She’d rather not be seen just walking around aimlessly, either. Paris had been the nurse on duty, and he’d suggested creating a holoprogram where she could engage in an ancient American ritual called “mall walking,” which honestly had sounded intriguing—B’Elanna had rather liked the idea of a weird artificial space with shops that hadn’t opened yet and ugly signage and bizarre potted flora and athletic old people to talk to about their old people hobbies like book clubs and bridge clubs and church bazaars—but alas B’Elanna had had to remind him the holodecks are still out of commission.

So, after having convinced everybody who needed convincing she had been well enough to go ahead and pick up Beta shift, she’s now off Beta shift and walking Voyager. She sees plenty of Decks 9 through 15 on a daily basis, so she starts at Deck 1 and works her way down. But the thing about aerobic exercise that she’s never been fond of is that she can’t turn off her thoughts. With anaerobic exercise—her preference, obviously—one is more consumed with the task at hand: one is counting reps, focusing on correct form, breathing intentionally, willing oneself to not feel the pain and burn. She guesses marathon runners do that sort of thing, too. But walking? It’s too natural, and adding that to the natural increase of blood flow to the brain involved in any activity that elevates heart rate is a recipe for an overthinker to overthink.

Decks 1-3 she’d tried to get herself under control—had tried to redirect herself to other thoughts. She’d quizzed herself on the circle of fifths for a while and had gotten stuck on the key of B, had moved back to the start at C and gone backwards and had gotten stuck again at E flat. She could reasonably just count the notes, but that hadn’t been the point. It had been an obscure rote memory mental agility thing rather than actual music theory. She’s disappointed with herself for both failing her own quiz and also not finishing the circle, but her brain’s already on a different tangent even as she’s berating herself.

By Deck 5, she’s given in. What had it been about Mlle de Neuf that Katrine had liked so much? Does real Seven possess those qualities, and does Janeway like them here and now? Why hadn’t Brigitte ever been allowed to gallivant around the bar in evening wear and flirt with people? She’s got a good singing voice, too, after all. Maybe the Hirogen hadn’t known so much about everyone as she’d originally thought and had merely made projections from log entries or something. It’s not something she shares with a lot of people and not something she talks about in her logs. It’s just her own private hobby. The only other person she ever talks music to is Harry and only because he’d been complaining to her that practicing his clarinet on his own is ok but he’d really like to have an accompanist and she’d accidentally let slip that she plays piano. He’d been elated, and she’d sworn him to secrecy and jam sessions in Holodeck 2 every two weeks.

But beyond the musical angle, and beyond the Hirogen clusterfuck, why hadn’t Janeway ever invited her to that da Vinci holoprogram? Sure, Seven doesn’t have a lot of friends on Voyager and Janeway by her very nature is inclined to harboring lost puppies. But B’Elanna’s always felt like a lost puppy, and besides, shouldn’t such a program appeal to her pretty explicitly as an engineer? Is it because Janeway doesn’t want to get too close to any of her crew but makes an exception for Seven because she’s such an outsider? Is it because Janeway is so weighed down being the captain that she doesn’t consider individuals because she’s so focused on the whole? Is it merely a convergence of time and opportunity and circumstance? There’s a lot to unpack, and B’Elanna has a limited number of mental wardrobes into which she can sort these metaphorical items.

Deck 8, and she’s still sorting. She’d been avoiding Tom because she doesn’t want to have to see his sweet, dopey face and remember Brigitte’s resigning herself to a sweet dope knowing she could never have whom she really wanted. She’s been avoiding Janeway—or trying to, semi-successfully—because she doesn’t want to see that jawline and those knowing eyes and everything she represents. She hasn’t been actively avoiding Seven. But that’s only because she doesn’t normally interact too much with Seven in the first place. 

But here they are, standing face to face a few yards away from the door to Cargo Bay 2.

“Lieutenant Torres,” Seven says. She’s straight backed and seemingly unruffled, all Borg efficiency or perhaps icy blonde femme fatale circa 1943. B’Elanna can’t parse the two at this juncture. Seven continues, “I have, just 6.4 minutes ago, completed my assigned diagnostic on the bio-neural gel pack system. Are you here to discuss those results?” Her eyes cut to the door to Cargo Bay 2 and then back to B’Elanna.

“No. Just walking,” B’Elanna says. Although she hasn’t been avoiding Seven, she doesn’t exactly want to see her. She’d thought that would be neutral and noncommittal enough to grant her a pass through Borg space. Seven cocks her head, says,

“Walking. In the interest of physical rehabilitation. The Doctor has recommended this regimen to me, as well, in order to fully integrate my Borg implants with my human systems. May I join you?”

B’Elanna had thought she’d be done at Deck 9 where she could take a sonic shower and collapse in her bed. She’d also never envisioned herself strolling Voyager shoulder to shoulder with Seven. However, it must’ve taken a lot out of that Borg petaQ to suggest such an alliance. She says,

“Sure. Why not?”

They’re in step with each other along the corridor, and Seven says,

“Because you do not trust me because I am Borg. Because you do not trust me because you are reluctant to trust.”

They haven’t even gotten to Deck 9 yet, and Seven’s trying to connect. Maybe that’s the thing B’Elanna’s been lacking all this time. Maybe she could’ve connected with Janeway in deeper ways if she’d been the type of person to boldly announce her desire for connection. If she’d been honest rather than aggressive.

But B’Elanna hasn’t learned her lesson. She snaps,

“Trust isn’t my issue. I trust you much more than I like you.”

Seven halts in the middle of the corridor, says,

“Trust and affection are inextricably linked, typically. I am confused. Why would you trust me yet dislike me?” B’Elanna registers the confusion and consternation on Seven’s face. There’s a part of her that hates Seven and there’s a part of her that commiserates with Seven. There’s also a part of her that hasn’t quite decided yet. B’Elanna says,

“Do you remember what happened with the Hirogen?”

Seven starts listing off stardates and facts and statistics. B’Elanna cuts her off, says,

“But do you… Remember?”

Seven blinks at her and then says,

“I have come to the conclusion that the majority of the participants recall the majority of the actions taken during that time but collectively choose not to speak about that time out of some sense of decorum.”

“Fuck decorum,” B’Elanna says. “Tell me what you remember.” She knows it will hurt, but she’s got to know. 

Seven blanches. B’Elanna had been prepared for a lot of reactions, but not that. Maybe she doesn’t want to know. Maybe it’s too much. But whatever it is, Seven says,

“I possess an eidetic memory.”

“Of course you do,” B’Elanna says, picking up the pace. It’s almost a sprint to B’Elanna’s quarters on Deck 9.

Seven is standing with her hands folded behind her back right at the entry to B’Elanna’s quarters, looking as if she’s on the way to the guillotine.

“At ease,” B’Elanna says. “Wanna drink?”

Seven says,

“I do not require—”

“A drink is hardly ever required. I’m trying to be sociable.”

“Sociability is irrelevant.”

“I thought you wanted to know about trust?” B’Elanna says.

“Sociability and sociology are different.” B’Elanna laughs. Seven’s right, of course. Maybe that’s why Janeway likes her so much, why Katrine had liked De Neuf so much. She drags Seven into her quarters and then shakes herself out of that line of thought, says,

“No one has claimed they aren’t. What do you remember?”

“I cannot tell whether you’d prefer I remembered or did not remember,” Seven says.

“I can’t tell, either. So you’d probably better come clean,” B’Elanna says.

“‘Come clean’?” Seven says.

“Divulge. Disclose. Be totally honest,” B’Elanna says.

“I see,” Seven says.


	3. Chapter 3

It wouldn’t be so weird if B’Elanna had a kitchen. It’s perfectly normal to stand around talking in a kitchen—especially a galley kitchen that’s narrow and doesn’t have a dining area. Or the bigger kind with an island so that if it’s a particularly messy conversation there’s the potential of an extra barrier between participants. There’s always something to pretend to be distracted with in a kitchen, too—cleaning something, replacing something in a cabinet, putting on a tea kettle. But she doesn’t have a kitchen. She’s got a living area, a sleeping area, and a bathroom, and Seven prefers to stand, and she’s not going to get a crick in her neck over it, so there they are across from each other, standing in front of the divan instead of sitting on it.

“I still do not understand how ‘coming clean’ about what occurred under the influence of the neural inhibitor connects to your disliking me.”

And that settles it. It’s absolutely too weird just standing in the living room like this. B’Elanna has to give herself a task before she goes insane. She crosses to the replicator.

“I never did say I didn’t like you, for the record. I trust you a great deal in certain respects. So saying I like you less than I trust you isn’t that big of a slight. You sure you don’t want a drink?” B’Elanna says.

“I’m sure,” Seven says. 

“Hope you don’t mind if I have something.”

“These are your quarters. You can do as you wish.”

“Oh right. Sociability is irrelevant.”

B’Elanna asks for a Vulcan spiced tea and leans against the replicator as she waits. It’s almost like being in a kitchen leaning against, say, the fridge. She’s looking at Seven and trying to figure out what’s going on in her brain. She can almost see her Borg wheels turning trying to process their evening together so far. Finally, Seven says,

“Where would you like me to begin?”

“Look, Seven. I was a little hasty and unnecessarily forceful in insisting you tell me what you remember. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But I’m having trouble getting my mind right after all that, and I wanted to talk to somebody about it, and I’m very curious about what your experience was and if it’s been affecting you.” 

B’Elanna’s not lying but she is kind of riffing on a theme, making it up as she goes. She hasn’t previous to this moment spent a lot of time considering Seven’s feelings, but once it’s come out of her mouth, she really is very curious. If she’s still having bizarre dreams about decoding radio messages and straightening Katrine’s bow tie, surely Seven’s got a lot going on in her mind. And although she hasn’t actually wanted to talk to anyone about it all, standing there looking at Seven all rigid and probably very uncomfortable, she suddenly does want to talk about it. And with Seven specifically. Their characters had been in love with the same woman; that’s got to count for something. She’s suspected that she and Seven have quite a lot in common, and maybe this is a good opportunity to explore that a little.

“I was not aware that you cared about me at all, let alone about my interior life,” Seven says. B’Elanna takes up her tea, says,

“Well surprise. I contain multitudes.” Seven’s ocular implant rises a tad. She says,

“Is that a quip in reference to my being Borg?”

“No. It’s a poetry reference. Gay dude from the 1800s, always writing about leaves of grass and the body electric and not being what society wants him to be.”

Seven’s staring at her very intently, nods once, says,

“Fascinating.”

“So.” She sips at her tea and then, “Do you remember all the characters you played? Or just the last one? I remember only the last one. And she haunts me.” Seven cocks her head, says,

“I remember only Anne de Neuf, as well. What about Brigitte troubles you so much?” She hasn’t been precisely able to pin down what exactly it is about her that’s brought up so many questions about her real life, but she surprises herself by saying,

“It’s not her exactly. It’s how sad she was. Just horribly sad. It washes over me sometimes.” And it’s the truth.

“Anne’s primary emotion was anger, but she was always angry about injustice and human rights violations, which are not concerns here on Voyager. I suspect the sadness Brigitte had is more easily translated to a variety of circumstances.”

“I think you’re onto something there,” B’Elanna says. She pauses and tries to decide how she’s going to broach the subject. Seven’s been so thoughtful, and she deserves thoughtfulness in kind. “I want to ask you something, but I don’t want to offend you, and if you don’t want to talk about it further, I won’t press the issue.”

“I believe I know what you would like to discuss, and perhaps it would be best if we sat down, as the conversation will probably be protracted.” B’Elanna about spits out her tea at that. Maybe it’s time to switch to Bolian tequila. The last time she’d had a protracted conversation about sex had been with Nicoletti about how that Enaran lady had hijacked her dreams, and she’d had to have been half sloshed for that even though there hadn’t been any jealousy involved, just the embarrassment of being in somebody else’s memories and banging somebody else’s boyfriend.

“All right. Um. I’m just gonna. Get a stiffer drink real quick. Make yourself comfortable.” She turns and recycles the tea, orders up a Bolian margarita, and turns back to see Seven confusedly holding a throw pillow, setting it gingerly onto the sofa next to her. She sits and looks at Seven, who takes a deep breath and says,

“I would prefer you ask the question so that I do not volunteer more information than may be warranted. Many incidents within the simulation remain confusing and embarrassing to me, and I don’t know how much of it I would like to share with you. But I am willing to answer your question because I suspect this is something that holds personal meaning to you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate your honesty. Ok.” B’Elanna takes a drink, sets it on the coffee table, wipes her palms on her slacks. “Mlle de Neuf and Katrine were. In a sexual relationship. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“How— What do you think about that?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.” B’Elanna takes another drink. She’s not sure what she means, either.

“Well. Do you think about it?” B’Elanna says. Seven cocks her head.

“Are you asking whether I fantasize about it?”

“Not exactly. Maybe? Mostly I.” B’Elanna stands and begins pacing. “It’s not like I spend a lot of time thinking about that Nazi bastard who knocked me up. But he isn’t somebody I see every day. He wasn’t even a real guy. The sex itself wasn’t anything to write home about and over quickly and happened before I was dropped into the program, so it was already memory when I was running around pregnant. But I’m assuming you two were actively… together. That’s gotta be weird to know that when she—I don’t know—puts her hand on your shoulder in astrometrics.”

“I see now what you had intended with your previous question, but I’m still unsure how to answer. It is a strange sensation when the Captain touches me. I do become aroused in her presence while I did not do so before.”

“You weren’t attracted to her before?”

“I wouldn’t characterize my reaction to her as attraction so much as muscle memory. Perhaps I am haunted by Anne de Neuf, after all.” B’Elanna finishes her drink and sits back down. That’s promising. But what does she mean by thinking that? Her stupid brain is treating this like some kind of romantic rivalry, but that’s not what this is. This is just the typical Delta Quadrant trauma of the week manifesting itself this time in awakening dumb feelings and insecurities.

“Why do you think de Neuf and Katrine got together but you’re not attracted to Janeway?”

“That is an interesting question. I don’t know. Their shared ideals and anger drew them together in passionate ways. They were very athletic and aggressive with each other. I don’t think I’m interested in copulating in that way in ‘real life.’” It’s hard to hear these details, but in spite of that, something about the way Seven’s said them—perhaps the tacit implication that she assumes real, actual Janeway likes rough sex—tickles her, and she laughs.

“What is funny about that, Lieutenant?”

“Just the whole thing. It’s so ridiculous to be sitting here talking about things we did as different people that aliens created. Unreal.”

“I would think you would have adapted to this sort of existential problem after having been a part of this particularly unlucky crew for so many years.” B’Elanna laughs again, says,

“I wouldn’t think you believed in luck.”

“I don’t. I wanted to make you laugh again.” B’Elanna looks at Seven, studies her impassive face, doesn’t know what to make of that. She says,

“Why?”

“I may have changed my mind about sociability.”

“Well well well. A little dishing about sex usually does bring people together.”

“In that vein, I do have a question for you, as well.” Here it comes. B’Elanna doesn’t have any idea what it will be, but she feels her stomachs pinging with dread. She knocks back the rest of her drink then says,

“It’s only fair. Go for it.”

“Why are you interested in this very specific topic?” B’Elanna figures there’s no use in lying or dodging. Seven’s been so accommodating and open. Maybe they’re friends now who confess things to each other. B’Elanna says,

“I told you Brigitte was sad. One of the reasons was that she was in love with Katrine. And that hits a little too close to home for me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that you are distressed, but I must admit I am also relieved. The trajectory of our conversation made me suspicious that you harbored feelings for me, and I had not prepared a way to tactfully inform you that I don’t feel the same.” B’Elanna laughs.

“When in doubt, always go for, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ You’ve even got the added, ‘Come on, dude. I’ve been an individual for like a week. Keep it in your pants.’” Seven looks at her for a second with a sort of quizzical look on her face, and then she laughs. It surprises B’Elanna, but the quizzical expression returns to Seven’s face as if it has surprised her, too.

“Thank you for the advice. I will take it under advisement,” Seven says.

“I live to serve,” B’Elanna says. Seven shifts on the couch, and her face is back to serious and unreadable. She says,

“Lieutenant?”

“Yep?”

“I have a personal question.” B’Elanna bites her tongue so she doesn’t say “A more personal question than, ‘Did you and Captain Janeway fuck?’” She says instead,

“Absolutely. Go ahead.”

“To preface, I did speak with Captain Janeway after the Hirogen incident, hoping for clarification. But she insisted she did not remember what had occurred. My cortical node detects fluctuations in heart rate and blood pressure and body temperature and respiration, which are traditional indicators of deliberate untruthfulness. Either she is a practiced liar or she really doesn’t remember. So. Now that you know that Captain Janeway and I are not currently involved and that she most probably doesn’t know that we were ever involved, do you intend to pursue her?”

“Oh hell no,” B’Elanna says. She stands and goes again to the replicator, orders up a second Bolian margarita.

“May I ask why?” Seven says.

“Have you met Janeway?”

“I obviously have, Lieutenant. That is why I am asking.” B’Elanna takes a drink, says,

“She’s the Captain. She thinks she can’t let herself be a person because of her Starfleet ideals.”

“It’s a good thing, then, that I am Borg, and you are Maquis.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that because of our non-affiliation we are exempt from certain Starfleet values and may be ethically free from those constraints in order to create a plan for you to seduce her,” Seven says. 

Hu'tegh, of all the ways she’d expected this conversation might go at the outset, she’d never have put money on Seven’s basically saying, “Fuck regulations; let’s get you laid.” It’s a lot to take in, but she’s even more convinced that they’re well on the way to being friends. Surely, only a friend would suggest this sort of thing.

“Do you have a plan, then?” B’Elanna says.

“No. But I am confident that if we pool our resources, we will be able to adapt and succeed.” B’Elanna’s still firmly of the opinion that Janeway will not be amenable to any romantic overtures, but the prospect of working with Seven on a project that is more emotionally complex than just realigning plasma manifolds intrigues her. She says,

“Ok.”

“To maximize our efficiency, we should brainstorm separately and then meet to discuss our ideas,” Seven says.

“Dinner tomorrow in the mess?” B’Elanna says.

“I look forward to it,” Seven says, and B’Elanna believes her.


	4. Chapter 4

0400 in the Delta Quadrant is not so different from 0400 in the Alpha Quadrant in so far as it is the worst time of night to wake up from a bizarre dream sweating and alone and having to be on shift in three hours but knowing sleep will not again be possible. 

The dream hadn’t been as bad as some of them. It had been World War II of course, but that Fear Clown had been there, too, but instead of his insane circus music, he had been accompanied by Klingon metal which sounds suspiciously similar, honestly. And Seven had been dressed as Mlle de Neuf, but she had clearly been Seven and she had been trying to sing along but had been having trouble with the quintuple meter, and she had kept giving B’Elanna this look like “yikes, help a girl out.” B’Elanna’s subconscious had also decided to spice it up by adding an air raid during which she had been too pregnant to haul herself down into the cellar. She’d woken up just as she and a stray dog had been trying to hunker down underneath a table and the Coeur de Lion had gone up in flames. It hadn’t been as bad as some of the others because of its sheer outrageousness. There had been a part of her, even as she had run around crazy in the dream, that had been skeptical about the whole scenario and so she couldn’t reach peak fright and anxiety.

Regardless, it’s four am, and she’s not got a lot of hope for going back to sleep. So instead of kicking around her quarters finding new and exciting ways to rile herself up, she heads to the gym. She’s not too surprised that she’s not alone. They all keep such oddball hours, and they all have so much emotional processing they’re in varying degrees of avoiding by using varying alternate coping techniques. Her comrade in arms this time is Chakotay, hitting the heavy bag. He’s got Bajoran underground hip hop blaring, so B’Elanna slips in unnoticed and just stands there for a second. She’s off her regular routine and has been for quite a while now. So she has to take stock of what she did last time, and she knows full well that her last workout had been scattered, unfocused, and a stupid amalgamation of too many muscle groups but not enough to count as an actual full body. She really ought to start working out with Harry again; he’s much better at organizing circuits than she is. She decides on a full body on machines, that way she can just go on to the next one and not have to think too much about exercise diversity and she can just skip past the ones she’s not supposed to do because of her hip.

She’s about halfway around the circle, on the hamstrings machine, when Chakotay’s voice says behind her,

“What was your nightmare about? Mine was about the Nemesis.” She turns over and sits up to look into his sweaty, half-smiling, half-grimacing face, says,

“Fucking A, that was like six Janeway-initiated-self-destructs ago.”

“Is that how we’re keeping track of time these days?” He says.

“I try different milestones out for size.” He laughs. “My nightmare was World War II and the Fear Clown.”

“Holy shit, that Fear Clown was like four encounters with the Borg ago,” he says and snaps her with the towel that had been draped over his shoulder. “Wanna hop in the steam room and probably not talk about it?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

They’re sitting across from each other, reclined with their eyes closed, and the heat and humidity are lulling her into that half-awake state where her thoughts drift and coalesce and slip and slide against each other. Two related things slide into the front of her brain: Seven’s suspicion that more people remember what had occurred in the Hirogen simulation and Seven’s certainty that Janeway doesn’t. Before she can drift off to sleep, she says,

“Hey. Do you remember anything about Captain Miller’s life?”

“No. That’s the point of a neural inhibitor, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah. I’m just taking a little informal survey. Seeing as how I do remember a lot about Brigitte.”

“Oh. That explains the World War II dream, I guess. Doesn’t explain Fear Clown.”

“He’s one of my unconscious mind’s perennial favorites. He pops up pretty often,” B’Elanna says. She makes a mental note to start talking to Harry more about this kind of stuff. Or at least checking in. She’s never successfully gotten him to open up to her. They’ve all been dragged through the baktag in a lot of ways, but a guy who’s been dead as many times as he has surely is plagued by all kinds of dreams. She hopes he’s talking to somebody. He and Tom have been stranded together at least three times so maybe they take care of each other. But Harry’s not here right now. Her available option is Chakotay, who’s always a good option for discussion anyway. She says, 

“On a different note, you and Janeway are close. How good of a liar is she?” Chakotay’s eyes finally open, and he says,

“What?”

“I know she’s kind of a trickster when she needs to be. But could she pass a polygraph?”

“What?” he says again.

“Pretend I’m asking this hypothetically and philosophically rather than literally,” she says. He sits up and looks at her for a moment. He says finally,

“Ok…?”

“Well? What’s your assessment?”

“She could pass a polygraph. But mostly because it’s antiquated pseudoscience. If I knew what this line of questioning was about, I might be able to provide more insight.” B’Elanna ignores the bait, says,

“But could she pass a spontaneous polygraph, without knowing the questions beforehand and preparing for it?”

“No, I don’t think she could. But. What the hell is this, B’Elanna?”

“Just curious after a discussion Seven and I were having. I wanted to fact check her.” His face is screwed up into a very confused expression; he says,

“You and Seven are friends now?” The way he’s said it has a little doubt, suspicion, and disdain in it, and she doesn’t like the tone. It’s not a mean or judgmental tone, but she still doesn’t like it. She says,

“Yeah. What of it?” He shrugs.

“Nothing. It’s just news to me.”

“It’s recent. Tentative,” B’Elanna says.

“Ok. Well. Just be judicious.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” she says.

“I just mean. I’m not convinced she’s all that committed to being a part of the crew. It’s not personal. It’s just that she might have a constitutional limitation.”

“So. What? You think she’s defective?”

“I didn’t say that.” He pauses, and he’s got that contemplative face. He leans over with his elbows on his knees, starts talking in his ancient parable voice: “I once read a book about a neuroscientist who was studying the brains of psychopaths, and he was looking through all the brain scans and comparing and contrasting electrical patterns, etc. He was also simultaneously doing a study on Alzheimer’s, and he noticed one of the brains in his control group for the Alzheimer’s study looked remarkably like the psychopath brains. He cross referenced it to see who the subject was. And it was him. It was his own brain. He then started reevaluating his life in light of this new information about himself and came to the conclusion that he was, indeed, a psychopath—he did not have empathy, he could not make meaningful social bonds, he could not feel emotions properly, and he had no concept of remorse. Despite all this, he did function as a contributing member of society, and he could be charming and decent, but he discouraged others from trusting him too much.”

“Look. I see what you’re saying, and I get where you’re coming from. But I think you’re reading her wrong,” B’Elanna says. 

“Maybe. I’d certainly rather be wrong,” he says.

“Well. I guess we’ll see how it all shakes out,” she says.

“And in the meantime, we’d probably better get out of here before we’re leola root stew,” he says.

As B’Elanna’s sonic showering, she’s retracing this conversation. She respects Chakotay and values his opinions and insights, but she can’t help but think he’s got a mental block on Seven’s character as it is in practice because of his previous experiences with other liberated Borg drones and perhaps even his possessiveness and protectiveness over Janeway. Well, also, to be fair to him, Seven doesn’t have a great track record of making great decisions regarding her relationship to Voyager and the Collective, respectively. But her joke last night comes back to her: “Come on, dude. I’ve been an individual for like a week. Keep it in your pants.” Sure she looks like a grown woman and has a lot of knowledge, but what kind of wisdom does she have? Expecting Seven to navigate life on Voyager perfectly is like expecting a teenager to not have a party when their parents are gone. And certainly Seven won’t become any fonder of any of them or any better equipped to handle adversity if they all treat her as if she’s the Borg equivalent of a psychopath.

Uniformed and exhausted-alert, B’Elanna plops into a corner booth in the mess hall with a PADD of a Klingon romance novel. It’s not just idle entertainment this time. She’d all but promised Seven she’d do some brainstorming, and she had been at a loss about it until she had remembered that she’d found this rather obscure novel in the database a few months ago and hadn’t gotten around to reading it yet: it concerns a Klingon warrior princess explorer who gets stranded on a moon where some Girl Scout of an Earth woman is roughing it on a quest for spiritual enlightenment, and they end up first having a lot of acrobatic sex and then falling in love and creating an empire together. B’Elanna doesn’t figure she’ll get a lot out of it, but she’s got to start somewhere. And also, why shouldn’t she have a little escapist fun?

Neelix is bustling with the breakfast spread, and the frenzied movement on the other side of the counter catches her eye, and she watches him juggling several different frying pans on the stovetop. She thinks suddenly: does Neelix ever sleep? Any shift she comes off, she can visit the mess and almost always run into him, chipper and smiling, ready to scramble some eggs for her. Or she can turn on her view screen at any time and catch a recent “Briefing with Neelix.” Or she can spot Samantha Wildman in the gym and ask what Naomi’s up to and be told the kid’s being babysat by Neelix. Maybe it’s some special Talaxian trait, or maybe Neelix is the most devoted crew member. Hard to say. Either way, he’s made his way to her table and is saying,

“If you’ve come to the mess this early, it’s because you want a big breakfast. What’ll it be, Lieutenant?”

“Whatever quasi coffee you’ve got, whatever fresh fruit you’ve got, whatever meat you’ve got, whatever egg concoction you’ve got, and something fluffy and sweet,” B’elanna says.

“Ah. The Delta Quadrant Special. Coming right up,” he says. He turns to lope back to the kitchen, but he stops mid-stride, says, “Captain! You’re early.” B’Elanna’s gaze follows his voice. There’s Janeway, just inside the mess hall doors. Janeway gives him a small wave and an even smaller smile. But he’s not deterred. He says, “Just as I was saying to Lieutenant Torres, if you’re this early, you want a big breakfast.”

“I wouldn’t say no to a big breakfast,” Janeway says. Her eyes scan the room, come to rest on B’Elanna’s corner booth. She says, “I’ll have what Torres is having.”

“Two Delta Quadrant Specials. Coming right up,” he says. Janeway smiles and ducks her head and crosses to the corner booth. She says,

“Is this seat taken?”

“Have at it, Captain,” B’Elanna says. Janeway sits and looks at her across the table, says,

“Let me guess. You couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s not the half of it. I’ve already put in a decent workout, soaked in the steam room, and had a disagreement with Chakotay.”

“How very industrious,” Janeway says.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“But I’m sure you’ve also been called better.”

“I don’t keep track,” B’Elanna says. Janeway laughs, says,

“Hmm. Maybe you should. I do.”

They stare at each other, and B’Elanna puts down her PADD, says,

“You keep track of how people think of me?”

“I keep track of a lot of things,” Janeway says. B’Elanna laughs, says,

“What a perfect nonanswer.” Janeway stiffens, says,

“Would you be able to accept something other than a nonanswer?”

Neelix returns with two heaping platters that he slides onto the table between them and then exits just as quickly with a double thumbs up.

Janeway pokes at the egg concoction with her fork, and B’Elanna says,

“I much prefer an answer to a nonanswer. But if all you’ve got for me is a nonanswer, I can accept that.”

They look at each other, and Janeway says,

“But it remains to be seen what I might be able to accept.”

“There is that,” B’Elanna says. “How good of a liar are you?”

Janeway swallows a mouthful of egg concoction, looks at B’Elanna, says,

“Better than some. Better than you, definitely.”


	5. Chapter 5

Lieutenant Susan Nicoletti walks into Engineering fifteen minutes late, hair a mess, uniform askew, with red-rimmed eyes and a bleary, glassy expression.

“You look like shit,” B’Elanna says.

“Thanks. I’ve been practicing in front of the mirror,” Nicoletti says.

“Are you hungover?”

“Obviously. Unfortunately. I’ve been having Species 8472 dreams again. Thought some sherry might help me sleep through the night, and I overdid it a tad. Didn’t have time to get a hypospray before shift.”

“I mean, you didn’t even have time to comb your hair, apparently,” B’Elanna says.

“I understand that it’s your duty, honor, and privilege to make fun of me about this, but do you have to do it in such a loud voice? My head’s already about to explode as it is.”

“I can’t stand to look at you like this. Go to sickbay and have the Doctor fix you up real quick,” B’Elanna says.

“Is that an order? And does that mean you don’t think I deserve the consequences of my actions?”

“Yes, it is an order, and although you deserve the consequences, I absolve you. Just call me B’Elanna the Merciful.”

“I will not be doing that,” Nicoletti says. “But I will go to sickbay if the offer’s still on the table.”

“Get out of here before I change my mind.” Nicoletti gives her a mocking salute and turns to leave. 

It’s not just that B’Elanna doesn’t want any unnecessary hangover-mistakes in the scheduled plasma manifold maintenance. Of course she doesn’t. It’s also that she’s been there and done that—feebly trying different chemical methods to get a good night’s rest only to end up accidentally kicking her own ass instead. 

As she’s skimming the Gamma shift reports, she wonders idly: Where had Nicoletti spent the Hirogen occupation? She doesn’t remember seeing any Nicoletti-shaped French Resistance gals. Maybe she’d been in the Klingon program with Neelix. Or maybe she’d been incapacitated in a previous one and had sat out the last leg. She knows Nicoletti couldn’t have been awake and in charge of Engineering because she definitely would’ve been lording that over everybody. “While you got to be wearing fun period clothes and dicking off in a French cafe, I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off keeping the ship going!” She’d be saying that for a couple different reasons: she gets insecure about being left out and also she likes to keep up morale by being comically contentious to keep everybody’s minds off real contentions. Nicoletti’s saved more situations than she can count with a well-timed asshole comment that had made B’Elanna laugh and unclench her fists. So she can give Nicoletti a pass on a hangover or two.

Mid-shift, the plasma manifold maintenance is done, and Nicoletti and B’Elanna are unsuccessfully trying to leverage the last out-of-place holo emitter from where it’s fused partially into a bulkhead from one of the many explosions that had led to their freedom but had also led to a lot of damage they’re still cleaning up. Nicoletti says,

“Why aren’t we just transporting this out?”

“And take the whole bulkhead with it?” B’Elanna says.

“If we adjust the variance to a subatomic frequency and isolate the particles individually rather than as a phase pattern…”

“That would work if the two items weren’t made of the same elements. Are you sure that hypospray worked? Is your brain turned on today?” B’Elanna says.

“The hypospray worked just fine for my nausea, fever, and headache.” Nicoletti half falls, half intentionally flops onto the corrugated metal beneath her and pauses. “But I guess I’m just kind of scattered in general lately. I don’t know why I’m dreaming about Species 8472 when all I’m thinking about when I’m awake is the last simulation I was in before the Hirogen shelved me in the brig. I don’t know if it was worse being a frontlines Ancient American Civil War nurse or being cooped up with my own thoughts in solitary wondering what in the actual fuck was happening with everybody else. I’m pretty disoriented most days with or without a hangover excuse.”

B’Elanna sits now, too, says,

“Yeah. I get that.” Nicoletti looks at her, looks away, says,

“Is that your way of admitting your neural inhibitor didn’t inhibit as well as it should have, either?”

“That’s about the long and short of it, yeah,” B’Elanna says.

“If you’re interested, a couple of us have got a little support-group/Hearts game going for folks who’re having trouble reconciling their real selves and their Hirogen-bullsit selves. We meet again tonight, in fact.” B’Elanna laughs reflexively—not because she’s amused but because she’s so taken aback. She says,

“Really?”

“Really,” Nicoletti says.

“I guess I hadn’t considered this would be a widespread problem.”

“It’s not. It’s just a handful of us, and it’s not limited to just the Hirogen. That’s what initially brought us together, but we end up talking about a lot of stuff that’s happened. And nobody’s any good at cards, so you’re bound to clean up.”

“What time is this club meeting? It’s not right after shift, is it?” B’Elanna says. Nicoletti waggles her eyebrows, says,

“You got a hot date?”

“No. But I do have a previous commitment.” Nicoletti waggles her eyebrows again, says,

“Oh so it’s a secret date. Good luck keeping it a secret.”

“It’s not a secret, and it’s not a date. I’m having dinner with Seven after shift.” Nicoletti’s eyes are wide, and she opens and closes her mouth a few times, settles on,

“Not sure if I’m more surprised that Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix Zero One eats dinner or that you’re into blondes these days.” B’Elanna rolls her eyes, says,

“What time and where is the poker game or support group or whatever it is?”

“1930. Conference Room 2. That is if you can pry yourself away from your new lady friend in time to attend.” B’Elanna rolls her eyes again, but this time it’s to keep herself from snarling at all the presumption. It’s probably better to let Nicoletti think she and Seven are involved in some way than to have her know the truth of it.

“Actually,” B’Elanna says. “Seven also remembers what happened to her by the hands of the Hirogen. Is she invited, then, too?”

“Of course. All our parties are BYOB. And in your case that means Bring Your Own Borg, I guess.” They look at each other for a moment, and then B’Elanna hauls herself up, says,

“Well. This holo emitter isn’t going to extract itself.” She riffles through her kit and takes out her mass spectrometer and begins recalibrating it so that it can distinguish between the holo emitter and the bulkhead. They’d been trying to just pry it out with a crowbar and their own body weight as leverage, but it’s proven too melted and too fused. Nicoletti stands and looks over her shoulder.

“What setting do you have it on?”

“I’ve taken it back to default so I can start from scratch. Then maybe if we get a variance we like, we can boost the signal and use it to not only identify the particles but also untangle them.” Nicoletti hums, and another voice behind them says,

“Not a bad idea, but might I make a suggestion?” They both turn simultaneously to face Janeway.

“Captain,” Nicoletti says in deferential greeting.

“What are you doing on Deck 5, Captain?” B’Elanna says, but she’s already suspicious she knows exactly why. In the month after the Hirogen have left, she’s seen Janeway—and avoided Janeway—at a variety of locations at the oddest times engaging in a variety of types of grunt work. Janeway says,

“You know I feel bad just sitting around in my Ready Room drinking coffee and pretending to read Neelix’s inventory report when there’s real work to be done.”

“Well, lucky for us if you’ve got a better idea than just clawing this out with our bare hands,” B’Elanna says.

“Might be entertaining to watch, but I don’t have a six pack of extremely gifted engineers lying around to replace you when you both put your backs out and ruin your fingernails.”

“It’s the manicure that bothers me most,” Nicoletti says. “The Doctor can do a lot of things, but he’s not great with an emery board.” Janeway laughs. 

She places a hand on B’Elanna’s shoulder as she does so, and then she brushes that hand across her shoulder blades as she moves around to where the tool kit is. B’Elanna has mixed feelings about this. Sure, a hand on a shoulder as one laughs. That makes sense. That’s natural. That’s a reflex, mostly. But those lingering fingertips ghosting so close to the base of her neck. There’s no reason for that other than because Janeway consciously had wanted to, and she has trouble parsing that want—is it more about Janeway’s innate compulsion to touch or is it a more focused want? Further, does Janeway know the effect her touch has on her, or is that a secondary concern behind her own need for brief connection for her own reasons? Perhaps there’s no intent or overt thought here at all, and it’s all instinct without logic or direction and B’Elanna’s overthinking the whole thing.

Janeway straightens from where she’s been hunched over the tool kit, smiling broadly, a few terillium strings dangling from her clenched fist. She says,

“Here’s my idea: you calibrate the mass spectrometer to differentiate atomic structures and lock those readings in.” She opens her fist, and some items drop; she catches what’s been enclosed there in her other open palm. She then lays out the small metal objects on a ledge with a flourish like a blackjack dealer and then continues, “And then we’ll place these sonic charges strategically and detonate them to vibrate at a frequency that will dislodge the atomic structures that have already been locked in. No crowbar necessary for the rest of it. We could probably just use a pair of salad tongs, if my theory is correct.”

“Sounds plausible,” B’Elanna says. Janeway flashes her a bright smile.

“So you wanna give it a go?” Janeway says even as she’s crouching down to place the sonic charges.

An hour later, close to ninety percent of the holo emitter has been scraped out. The remainder is structurally safe to leave to its own devices for the time being, but they will have to reinforce this bulkhead at some point. They’d probably have left the whole thing as is if it hadn’t been a tripping hazard and there hadn’t been the possibility that the highly damaged holo emitter might further deteriorate and eventually leak radon gas. The potentially radon-leaking part had been the first thing they’d gotten rid of, and Nicoletti had run it to the hazardous materials recycler. After that it had been all fiddly little bullshit. The sonic charge thing had worked but only partially, and they’d had to pry quite a bit of it although with more precision than force because of the way it had been loosened, performing the task on their hands and knees, hunched over at uncomfortable angles, stabbing into the amalgamated mess with box cutters and sonic drivers.

So here they are, all three of them just this side of exhausted at the tediousness of it all. They’re all sitting on the metal floor rolling out their shoulders. Nicoletti says,

“I’m all stove up. Sitting for two hours talking about trauma and losing every round to Samantha Wildman is going to kill me.”

“You could always go to the gym beforehand. That always helps limber me back up,” B’Elanna says.

“I swear, B’Elanna. You’re in the gym more than you’re in your quarters. Either you’re in a constant state of stove up, or exercise is your solution for everything. I prefer a nice soak in the tub, myself.” Janeway says.

“Not all of us have a tub, and the holodecks are offline,” B’Elanna says. Janeway shrugs,

“And you’re always too busy doing hammer curls to ask to borrow mine.” Nicoletti makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a stifled laugh, but B’Elanna can’t determine what exactly it had been because she’s still looking at Janeway, who’s got her half smirk on. Janeway turns to Nicoletti, says, “You mentioned something about talking about trauma and losing rounds of something to Samantha Wildman? Is that a club or something? I don’t mean to pry, if it’s a secret in general or if, specifically, the Captain’s not supposed to know.” 

“Oh it’s nothing like that,” Nicoletti says. “It’s not formal or anything. Just a group of us who remember what happened during the Hirogen occupation who talk about that and other stuff we need to process. And Sam’s the only one of us who’s any good at cards. We usually play Hearts. She shoots the moon at least once a night. It’s unnerving. The rest of us are gonna have to start a separate support group about that.” Janeway laughs and puts her hand on Nicoletti’s forearm, and then she cocks her head and has that very tender, serious look in her eyes as she says,

“Well, I think that sounds wonderful that you’ve gotten a group together to help each other and listen to each other. It’s a shame we don’t have a ship’s counselor. Of course, if we did, we’d work the poor sucker to the bone.”

“You’re welcome to drop in if you’d like. You’ve probably got plenty of stuff that you need to work through.” B’Elanna feels her heart drop into one of her stomachs. This could be a bad deal. She’s not dead set on going and hasn’t asked Seven yet if she’s interested, but if the three of them are all there looking at each other. Yikes.

“That’s very kind of you. I don’t know if it would be appropriate. As the Captain, I wouldn’t want to intrude on something so personal and private.” Janeway says.

“I don’t see how it would be inappropriate. It’s kind of like Alcoholics Anonymous. First names only and we don’t reference anything anybody tells us once we’re back outside of Conference Room 2,” Nicoletti says.

“So you were lying when you said it wasn’t secret?” Janeway says, again with that half smirk.

“No. It’s secretive but not secret. Anyone is welcome to join as long as they can keep their traps shut about what they hear.” Nicoletti says.

“Noted,” Janeway says. She leans back and braces herself on her hands, tips her head back in a luxurious stretch. “Well. I suppose I ought to get back to the bridge before Tuvok puts out an APB. Thanks for letting me get my hands dirty with you. And thanks for the invite tonight. I’ll consider it.” She sits up and then looks at B’Elanna, “Are you a member of this club, by any chance?”

“I’m just a pledge. My hazing is set for next week,” B’Elanna says. Janeway laughs, says,

“Is it a paddling, or is it a swallowing-a-goldfish affair?”

“They haven’t told me yet. Sue, any insight you can provide as fraternity social chair?” B’Elanna says. Nicoletti laughs, says,

“Blindfolded, spun around a few times to create a good amount of disorientation, and then left in a Jefferies tube naked to find the way back to Conference Room 2.”

“Solid choice,” Janeway says a little suggestively with a raised eyebrow. She then rises and says, “It was fun working with you ladies today.” She turns to leave and says in a wry, self-deprecating, low voice, “Might see you later if I don’t talk myself out of admitting my own weaknesses in front of other people.” She does a little wave over her shoulder and exits quickly.

B’Elanna and Nicoletti look at each other.

“I’m really not sure what to make of all that,” Nicoletti says.

“Yeah. Me neither,” B’Elanna says.

“Especially how the Captain was flirting with you all afternoon.”

They look at each other again, and Nicoletti punches her in the arm, jocularly, affectionately. B’Elanna concedes,

“Yeah. Especially that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Is my technobabble complete nonsense? Yes. Do I care? No. Well maybe a little but not enough to do more research.
> 
> 2\. One thing that’s struck me during my Voyager rewatch is that it’s an all jock crew. We’ve got Parrises squares champ and all-around athlete Harry Kim, boxer Chakotay, tennis girl Janeway, extreme sports enthusiast B’Elanna. Tom’s not that into sports, per se, but mechanics are jock-adjacent. Then there’s Tuvok and Chakotay and Janeway sitting around debating sumo wrestling like dads talking about the Chiefs at a BBQ. I don’t have a solid theory about why this is important and how it distinguishes Voyager from other Star Treks yet, but I’m exploring my thoughts gradually by writing a lot of gym rat B’Elanna Torres.


	6. Chapter 6

Ensign Murphy’s got a full plate of lumpy brown mystery food in front of him, and Neelix is standing beside the table smiling in anticipation. Murphy looks at Neelix and looks at the plate and looks at Neelix again and then takes up his fork and smiles weakly as he plunges it into the amalgamation before him. Neelix leans in, and Murphy puts the forkful into his mouth and quickly nods and gives a thumbs up with his other hand. But there is pain in his eyes. Neelix doesn’t seem to notice and gives him an answering thumbs up before he turns to go.

B’Elanna’s sitting across from Seven at a booth approximately two yards away from Ensign Murphy’s table, and they’ve been watching him, and others, attempt to eat this dinner offering. Which is, unfortunately, one of the only things available, considering their continuing power shortages. Seven says,

“My enhanced visual acuity allows me to see Ensign Murphy’s tears forming in their ducts.”

And now Neelix is at their table.

“What a pleasant surprise to see you two ladies sitting together peaceably! You’re here for dinner, I presume?” Seven straightens up and starts to open her mouth, but B’Elanna beats her to it:

“We’re weighing our options. What exactly is the special for tonight?” He pulls up a chair and sits with them, places his elbows on the table, says,

“I’ve been noticing that everybody’s kind of down in the dumps lately, so I’ve been researching comfort foods. Tonight’s special is a dish called ‘the ultimate chicken fry.’ Traditionally, it is a very thin cut of beef tossed in an egg wash and a spiced flour batter and pan fried and then smothered in sautéed onions and mushrooms and brown gravy made from beef drippings or broth and flour. But I didn’t have those ingredients, per se. So it’s a very thin cut of technically genetic beef that’s been synthesized in a specialized grow tank for the purpose of being used as nutritional protein without ever having been a living cow tossed in an Eskarian egg wash and a spiced weequa batter and pan fried and then smothered in sautéed darvot and leola root because we’re having trouble in the aeroponics bay growing any kind of onions at all let alone mushrooms that aren’t poisonous and brown gravy that because the synthesized meat doesn’t have fat to render is mostly composed of Betelgeuse butter and weequa and charred leota root for color and flavor.”

Seven and B’Elanna look at each other. Seven says,

“You are a very resourceful and creative individual. However, I believe my Borg systems will not be amenable to such an adventurous culinary achievement. Is Nutritional Supplement E-6 available?”

Neelix frowns, but it’s a contemplative, sympathetic frown. He says,

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I can whip up an E-6 for you in a jiff. Delicious and nutritious.” He turns to B'Elanna, says, “What about you, Lieutenant?”

“I always feel so bad eating real food when Seven’s drinking a weird kale smoothie. Maybe I’d like to try E-6, too. In solidarity.” 

Neelix hops up from his chair, grinning and vibrating with enthusiasm and purpose.

“I don’t know if there’s anything I enjoy more than facilitating friendships,” he says. “Two Nutritional Supplement E-6s coming right up!” Seven looks again at Ensign Murphy and says,

“If it is not too much extra work, could we have our nutritional supplements in portable containers so that we may be free to consume them as we partake in a physical rehabilitation program as prescribed by the Doctor?”

“No trouble at all. Probably easier that way, actually,” Neelix says and then turns toward the kitchen.

B’Elanna feels a bit guilty in her minuscule deception. She wants to be as supportive to Neelix as he is to everyone. He deserves the kind of compassion, care, and unconditional love that he shows the entire crew. But there’s no way she wants to put her body through the same thing that Murphy’s still putting himself through. She glances over at him, and he’s still choking down the ultimate chicken fry, increasingly green around the gills. But she’s got to admit, Seven’s navigation of the situation had been masterful. She says,

“Thanks for the easy out. I appreciate it.”

“It was a selfish act. With your unique physiology, you would not be so viscerally affected as Ensign Murphy. However, I thought it more efficient for our conversation if you remained in peak form rather than attempting to speak with me while suffering from the ill effects of weequa,” Seven says. B’Elanna laughs, says,

“But the reason we’re having the conversation whose efficiency you’re so closely guarding in the first place is that you insisted on helping me, which is an unselfish thing.”

“Perhaps,” Seven says. She cocks her head. “You don’t suspect I have ulterior motives?”

“Well, shit, I hadn’t until now,” B’Elanna says. Seven makes that brief quizzical face that B’Elanna now knows is a preface to laughter, and Seven does, in fact, laugh. And then she says,

“That is comforting to me. I do not know where the common belief that Borg are manipulative originates. The Borg state their intentions clearly and execute those intentions immediately. There is no artifice involved. Yet, I have encountered many crew members who have expressed fear of me, their stated reasons being that I am Borg and they distrust my intentions and actions and suspect I will deceive them for personal gain. It is an error in logic that deeply unsettles me. Last evening, when I expressed the idea that you might be distrustful of me, I knew it couldn’t be because you thought me a liar. I knew you did not appreciate my disregard for your authority and expertise or my flouting regulation. Although I disagreed with you on the matters themselves, it was logical to me that because of our disagreements you might not enjoy my company or not trust me to perform tasks you’d assigned me as my superior officer. If I must be disliked and distrusted, I would rather be disliked and distrusted for characteristics I genuinely possess rather than simply because I am… different.”

The whole rant has floored B’Elanna. Number one, it’s only tangentially related to what they’ve been talking about. She can see how Seven has connected the ideas, but it’s still a little atypical. Number two, which is very related to number one, it’s an unprompted peek into Seven’s psyche and how her brain flows from point to point, what logic she uses and how. And Number three, the last sentence is a sentence she’s said to herself so many times it’s unreal, and once again she’s struck by how many similarities they might share. After a second to digest, B’Elanna says what she’d like to hear if she’d said all that:

“I understand what you’re saying, and you’re totally right.” Seven stares at her for a moment, and then she says,

“Thank you. It is important for any individual to be understood and for her beliefs to be corroborated by an objective third party.”

“Well. You’re welcome. I’d expect the same from you,” B’Elanna says, and she believes it. She trusts her to attempt it, anyway, and she’s starting to feel as though she might like her just as much or more as she trusts her. At least, when they’re in a social setting she likes her quite a bit. They haven’t worked together in a few weeks as they’ve been on different clean-up and energy-saving projects. Seven might very well be just as insufferable in a work situation as she’d started out being. As she’d said to Chakotay, she’ll just have to see how it all shakes out. But she’s not opposed to them being actual friends and doesn’t consider that an implausible or objectionable outcome. It could be beneficial to both of them, in fact. Maybe even beneficial to the crew at large. Seven’s voice jolts her out of her thoughts:

“I will comply if and when a similar situation arises for you that you share with me and request my opinion.” B’Elanna laughs. “What is humorous about that, Lieutenant?” Perhaps a few days ago, B’Elanna would have taken that as a hostile question, but since she’s had actual conversations with her, she knows it’s a genuine, curious question to better understand the nature of humor, and so she responds honestly:

“Have you ever heard of the philosophical concept of a ‘social contract’?”

“Yes,” Seven says. “When I first joined this crew, I did extensive research about different theories of social cohesion. The idea of the social contract concerns individuals relinquishing certain rights in order to secure mutual safety for the greater good. I don’t see how that or what I said is humorous or how they relate to each other.”

“It’s just that. A social contract is usually implicit, just something people do naturally and don’t say out loud. And yet here you were giving me an explicit pledge. It was funny to me.” Seven raises an eyebrow, and B’Elanna continues, “It was funny to me because it’s really what we all want. To know for certain that people have our back. But we’re all too polite and scared and entrenched in our own ideas of accepted social norms that we don’t just say it out loud to each other. It made me laugh because I liked it so much.”

“I see,” Seven says. But her face says that she doesn’t exactly see. Oh well. She’ll either get it or she won’t, and it doesn’t really matter either way because she’s got a lot of heart, and B’Elanna’s sure that if Seven’s got enough people around her who care about her and are patient with her, she’ll develop just fine. She wonders if that’s a condescending way of thinking about it. No, she thinks. Everyone’s on their own journey of development, and objectively Seven has a disadvantage having been a Borg drone for most of her adult life thus far. Seven herself wouldn’t disagree with that assessment, B’Elanna figures. It’s just facts and evidence-based psychological theory.

Neelix returns, a to-go cup in each hand. He sets them both down on the table.

“Enjoy the nutritional supplements and your rehabilitation regimen. Tomorrow night’s comfort food is plomeek soup. Maybe that’ll be more agreeable to your Borg systems,” he says hopefully.

“Is the plomeek soup made from plomeek?” B’Elanna says as she takes up her smoothie and begins examining it.

“Yes, actually. It’s our best crop in aeroponics.”

“I’ll be here with bells on, then,” B’Elanna says. He smiles so brightly that B’Elanna knows she’s written her own social contract that she won’t be able to let herself get out of.

“Shall we begin our exercise?” Seven says as she stands. B’Elanna smiles at Neelix and takes a drink. It’s very thick and very grass-tasting but not unpalatable. She nods at him and then turns to Seven, says,

“No time like the present.” 

Neelix waves, and B’Elanna waves, and Seven nods, and Seven and B’Elanna are on their way out for a reparative brisk walk—on which they can have a certain amount of privacy and will not be compelled to make too much eye contact and will have plenty of physical activity to keep them both distracted and focused. If one must have a conversation one is unprepared for, it’s best to have it in a kitchen or on a stroll.

They’re in the corridor on Deck 2, both intermittently sipping their nutritional supplements. Seven says,

“Now that we are alone, I assume it’s the correct time to begin the discussion we agreed on having about your seduction of Captain Janeway. I have been conducting research on mating rituals across many cultures as well as research on both your and Captain Janeway’s personalities.” She pauses. B’Elanna takes this pause to mean Seven’s asking for belated permission to have done this research. While B’Elanna is skeptical that any seduction could actually reasonably take place, she’s chosen to engage with Seven about it as an intellectual exercise and a way to connect with Seven in a more personal way so that they might understand each other better. B’Elanna says,

“Ok. Go on, then.” Seven keeps staring at her. So she says, “It’s a reasonable course of action. What’d you find?” Seven blinks a few times, says,

“According to my research, the Captain will not enter into a long-term romantic relationship because of her commitment to Starfleet regulations and ideals as well as her sense of guilt at having stranded this vessel in the Delta Quadrant and therefore has estranged countless members of her subordinates from their significant others and has doomed all of her subordinates to living according to Starfleet codes that are too rigid to accommodate the realities of a deep-space, possibly generational, starship.” 

“That sounds right,” B’Elanna says. All of that is mostly common knowledge or at least could reasonably be deduced from Janeway’s public statements and actions. It’s something that’s played as background noise to B’Elanna the whole time they’ve been out here. It’s something that’s grounded her in and reminded her of the lived reality of the Delta Quadrant when she’s spent too long fantasizing about what it might be like to fuck Janeway. Although she’s gained a lot of insight lately into how Seven thinks, she doesn’t know what the point of her stating the obvious is.

“It is right,” Seven says, all Borg confidence. She continues, “Captain Janeway cannot become involved in the ways I’ve described. However. She is both inclined to and suited to discrete and also discreet sexual encounters. I have uncovered evidence that she has had several such sexual encounters during this mission, including but not limited to with ancient Earth hero Amelia Earhart.” B’Elanna’s been trying to follow whatever Seven’s line of thought has been, but she’s been unsuccessful, and now she’s too confused to pretend otherwise. She says,

“What are you trying to get at? If you’re trying to work me into a froth by playing into my jealous nature, you’re succeeding.”

Seven stops walking. She’s completely still in the corridor, eyes closed. She takes a deep breath. B’Elanna watches her do so. Seven’s eyes open, and she says,

“It’s very difficult for me to translate my thoughts into words. As a Borg drone, my thoughts were immediately transmitted to the Collective. I do not mean to be obtuse, but I find anything I want to say necessitates exposition, and exposition is often tedious and therefore glossed over in favor of getting right to the matter at hand. But the matter at hand is not usually understandable without the exposition that leads to it.”

“Seven,” B’Elanna says. Seven looks at her. They look at each other. B’Elanna continues, “I’m not questioning your methods or your conclusions. I just want to know how it all connects. I’m Klingon and impatient, after all.” Seven straightens, says,

“Of course. The Captain refuses to consider a serious, long-term relationship but is open to an impulsive, pleasure-based short-term relationship with no enduring consequences. My theory is that if you seduce her under the assumption that it is merely a biological imperative, you will succeed. And thereafter you will be able to repeat your intimacy because you both enjoy it so much and then you can ingratiate yourself further until it’s a pattern.”

“Oh,” B’Elanna says. That’s certainly a theory. It makes a lot of sense. But it also seems like a ruse in some ways. Regardless, she says, “You’ve convinced me. Now. How do you suggest I get in Janeway’s pants in the first place?”

“Well,” Seven says. “That’s rather more difficult.”


	7. Chapter 7

They’d begun with a lap around Deck 2, circled back up to Deck 1, taken the Jefferies tubes down to Deck 3 for a change of pace and scenery. Seven had outlined her basic plan during their circuit of Decks 2 and 1, and they’d been too focused on not stumbling and not spilling their nutritional supplements in the Jefferies tubes that they hadn’t done much talking. So it’s on Deck 3 that Seven begins questioning B’Elanna about what brainstorming she’s done in service of their common goal.

“Uh well,” B’Elanna says. “Been brushing up on some romance reading. To get some ideas. Sometimes it takes a while or just the right stimuli for inspiration to hit me, though.”

Seven looks at her with a brief but intense stare, says,

“You are not taking this seriously.” She turns her head back to looking straight down the hall, her jaw set just a tad higher and tighter than it had been before. They walk another four long Borg strides or so and then:

“Seven,” B’Elanna says as she stops. Her hip’s aching a little, but that’s not the reason she’s stopped. It had contributed, yes, but it’s not the primary reason. She stretches more dramatically than she might normally so that she can pretend it’s the primary reason, pretend that she hasn’t stopped just so she can better read Seven’s face as she says, “I understand why you might be frustrated with me for not pulling my weight. But. Why exactly are _you_ taking this so seriously?” B’Elanna herself had been treating the whole thing more like a game, an exercise of wits. But there’s something so adamant and so dire in Seven’s treatment of it—as if she’s experimenting with a vaccine rather than speculating about hypothetical and improbable relationships. Maybe B’Elanna’s reading it wrong, or maybe it’s just Seven’s innate seriousness. Either way, there’s a disconnect, and B’Elanna wonders if it’s a fundamental disconnect that can never be rectified even with the best intentions or if there’s something she doesn’t get because she hasn’t asked the right questions. 

“Is there a reason I should not be? You are sexually and romantically interested in the Captain, and she openly flirts with you at every opportunity, a strong indication that she shares your interest. A relationship would benefit both of you, and your mutual increased morale as a result would benefit the rest of the crew. Were we not just moments ago discussing the nature of the social contract? Individuals much prefer to submit themselves to a benevolent ruler who is satisfied in her own personal life so that she doesn’t interfere too much with their lives arbitrarily out of boredom or envy.” B’Elanna laughs.

“Benevolent Tyrant Queen Janeway and her consort Torres who keeps her occupied so that she doesn’t torture the serfs for fun. Ridiculous.” Seven’s eyes flash dangerously, and her jaw tightens further, and she says,

“My apologies for suggesting something so ‘ridiculous’ as the optimization of the ship’s well-being and your own personal well-being.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re sincere. It’s not even that I don’t believe you. It’s just that it’s all a little much for me,” B’Elanna says.

Seven picks up the pace of their jaunt. Her fists are clenched down against the outside of her thighs, and she’s got a look on her face that says she’s restraining herself from a physical confrontation. Her voice is cold and measured and strained as she says,

“Everything that has happened to me on this vessel is ‘a little much for me.’ I have been forced into individuality and all the uncertainties that come with that state of detachment from everything I have ever known. That would have been difficult on its own in a vacuum or in a neutral environment free from outside influence. Or even in a positive environment. If somehow some kindly grandmother had ‘liberated’ me from the Borg and given me her spare room in her bungalow and had taught me humanity through Methodist potluck dinners and bingo nights and harp lessons. Even that would have been confusing. But I am on what I can reasonably conclude is a vessel that statistically encounters anomalies and hostile species at such an intensity and frequency that it skews the standard deviation in the Federation database. Therefore, I am not only attempting to process my own individuality but also what I have learned both through anecdotal evidence and empirical studies is an atypically high level of successive stressors that include but are not limited to being subject to an alternate reality in which I was engaged regularly in both extremely dangerous subterfuge against a corrupt government and a volatile sexual relationship, both of which my actual reality had not adequately prepared me for physically or psychologically. And I am now required to continue my duties as if none of this has affected me. So again, forgive me if my attempts to assist you are ‘ridiculous.’” 

She pauses, and B’Elanna reaches out to touch her forearm, to say something she knows will come out asinine and not comforting, but Seven moves her arm away before contact can be made—it’s a more graceful move than a jerk, but the intention and result are the same, and B’Elanna grips her nutritional supplement as something to do with her hands.

B’Elanna hadn’t really thought of any of it in the way Seven’s presented it, and she feels as if she’s been punched in the gut. Not because it rings false or that she has had anything to do with Seven’s pain personally. It’s sadness she feels. Maybe it’s some leftover Brigitte sadness creeping into her psyche, or maybe having experienced Brigitte’s pure, unfiltered, impotent sadness has allowed her to access her own empathy a little more freely. She doesn’t want to merely not contribute to Seven’s successive stressors; she wants to actively help remove stressors. But currently Seven’s worked up, and B’Elanna’s unsure how to proceed to convey that she’s heard her and cares about what she’s heard without inadvertently hitting nerves that might be just under the surface.

They make eye contact then. It’s rather accidental on B’Elanna’s part, but there they are staring into each other, and Seven’s straight-backed and unflinching as she says,

“However, I do confess, there is an element of selfishness in my motivation. My previously stated reasoning for aiding in your seduction of the Captain was factual and accurate. But incomplete. The entire truth is that I think I would personally gain from your becoming involved with the Captain because I think it would help me to reconcile the events that transpired in St. Claire. My hypothesis is that if I were certain she was with someone suitable and satisfied in that relationship, it would be easier for my traitorously illogical and alarmingly fanciful subconscious brain to believe that the Hirogen occupation is indeed over and that everything that occurred therein had truly been counterfeit. It is not just images of Katrine’s pleasure-wracked body that prematurely end my regeneration cycles. It is also images of dead children in shallow graves and Nazi soldiers in dark alleys and the sanitary conditions of 1940s jail cells.”

Again, B’Elanna attempts to reach out and touch Seven’s forearm. This time, Seven lets her. She’s still very rigid and angry looking, though. B’Elanna feels even sadder and even more certain she doesn’t have anything reassuring to say. She lets slip the only thought in her brain,

“Kahless, all that just sucks to the max.”

“Yes,” Seven says. “Everything ‘sucks to the max,’ indeed.”

They share a look. The stupidity of the statement has at least seemed to defuse Seven’s anger.

“Have you talked to anybody about this?” B'Elanna says.

“I am talking to you.”

“Yeah. I guess you are.” B'Elanna pauses. They look at each other. Seven says,

“I have spoken to the Captain about several of the minor points I mentioned although briefly and on separate occasions. I have felt… Uncomfortable talking to her for any extended length of time as I have feared revealing the nature and origin of my discomfort.”

“Yeah I get that. She’s pretty useless to talk to when she’s feeling too guilty. And there’s no way she wouldn’t feel guilty about that,” B’Elanna says.

“Precisely,” Seven says. B’Elanna squeezes her arm, and they nod at each other and then start walking again. 

They’re silent as they climb down to Deck 4. B’Elanna figures Seven doesn’t have much of a sense of regret, but on the off chance that she might, B’Elanna wonders if Seven might regret sharing so many of her insecurities with her. She’s trying to watch her out of the corner of her eye, to ascertain any clues as to how she might be feeling currently, what she might be thinking, if she’s still upset, whether B’Elanna’s running this right. She tries to remember the last time she’d made a new friend and how she’d gone about it. But as she flips through her mental Rolodex, she realizes she hasn’t ever really been the active party in creating a friendship—at least not in her recent memory. Maybe with Harry, but that had mostly just been making fun of him a lot and then accidentally uncovering their similarities—their engineering aptitude and their interest in music. There’s a lot of trial and error in most types of relationships, though. And there’s not a lot of precedent for being friends with an ex-Borg, so she might as well just roll the hard six. She says,

“So, Seven. I don’t need to try to come up with real, actual words to describe how bad I feel about what you’ve just told me, do I? You get that I get you, right?”

“You are correct, Lieutenant,” Seven says.

“So I’m going to ask you something, and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, as if I’m trying to pawn your emotional and psychological health off on somebody else because I’m not interested or ill-equipped. I mean, I’m not especially equipped, of course. But I really am suggesting this because I care about you. Would you feel comfortable talking about your experiences in a group setting?”

“I do not doubt your motives, but I don’t understand your question,” Seven says.

“It’s one of those stupid human psychology things. Safety in numbers. Anonymity in a crowd. Safe and controlled mass hysteria brought on by but also reined in by shared grievances. However you might want to justify it or qualify it, it’s thought that talking through problems in a group can be especially illuminating because of all the different perspectives and the mental elasticity involved in understanding those different perspectives and applying them to your own deal.”

“I see,” Seven says.

They’re on Deck 5 now, ambling toward Holodeck 1 at a languid pace, nutritional supplements long gone. Seven stops to deposit her to-go cup in a receptacle. She turns to B’Elanna and takes her empty cup, recycles it, as well. And then she says,

“You have already selected a group to which you think I would be suited.” 

“Not exactly,” B’Elanna says. “I didn’t select the group. The group selected me. I don’t know who’s involved other than Nicoletti and Wildman because I haven’t yet participated, but there’s a couple others, too. The common denominator is that they all remember. And they get together to talk about it. I was thinking of going tonight. You’re welcome to join me.” Seven cocks her head, says,

“Do you think the members of this group might offer me more profound an insight than that the situation ‘sucks to the max’?” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“I wouldn’t bet on it. But it might make you feel better to know other people are struggling, too. And to have somebody better than me to listen to you.”

“I find you an adequate listener,” Seven says. “And I don’t understand the sentiment of feeling better because others are also distressed.”

“You don’t? I thought that was a key component to why we’re getting along. That you want to fix my problems so I can help fix yours.” A beat and then.

“I suppose that is accurate,” Seven says. “I am amenable to attending this group meeting.”

B’Elanna’s about to tell her how she looks forward to it and to convey the relevant details of time and location of the meeting, but their walk has taken them to Holodeck 2, and Seven’s got a Borg grip on her tricep and is pulling her inside. She’s knocked off balance physically by the strong grasp on her arm and intellectually by the knowledge that the holodecks are supposed to be offline.

It’s an outdoor dining terrace overlooking a very blue body of water, all chic wrought iron and glass tables and waiters in vests with pristine white dish towels draped over their shoulders as they serve champagne.

Captain Janeway is seated at the farthest table, her arm slung over the railing, her chin resting in her elegant hand as her eyes scan the sea or gulf or river or lake or whatever. She’s in a cream button-up silk blouse that’s open at the collar. B’Elanna can’t see what else she’s wearing because of their relative positions, but that silk blouse and what it conceals and reveals in equal measure is quite enough to conclude she’s here on a date.

B’Elanna wheels around to face Seven, says,

“The holodecks are supposed to be offline.”

“I am aware of that,” Seven says. “I rerouted power from my regeneration chamber. My regeneration cycles have been inconsistent and not beneficial since the Hirogen occupation, so I have been organically sleeping instead. It is an inefficient but serviceable compromise. Most days, I reroute the power from my unused regeneration chamber to integral systems such as the sensor array. Sometimes, however, I am compelled to utilize the available amperage to explore. The Doctor has been tutoring me in social skills by subjecting me to holographic simulations of social interactions. So—”

“You thought I would benefit from practice with the same sort of holographic simulations?” B’Elanna says.

“Yes,” Seven says.

B’Elanna doesn’t want to get belligerent. She doesn’t want to be off-putting. She doesn’t want to come off as a superior asshole. But the Doctor and his presumption cannot be ignored. B’Elanna says,

“Holograms have value. But it’s not a one-to-one correlation. I’m not denying the Doctor’s personhood, but his personhood is very different from humanity. I myself am only half human, so my own personhood is very different from mainline humanity. Still. If you’re looking for an appropriate role model, the Doctor ain’t it, babe.”

Seven nods, says,

“I am not looking for anything but a friend.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Janeway to Torres.”

B’Elanna almost doesn’t hear the hail from where she’s set her commbadge on the ledge of the mirror above the free weights rack. She sets the dumbbells she’s currently doing hammer curls with on the bench to her right, wipes her sweaty hands on her almost as sweaty spandex shorts, and taps her commbadge gingerly with just the tip of her index finger so as to not dislodge it from its perch.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Sure. Give me ten to wrap up.”

“Where are you?” Janeway says.

“I’ll give you three guesses.”

“Well, I know you’re not scheduled for duty, but that doesn’t mean much, knowing you. And yet, I’m going to guess… The gym?”

“On the nosey,” B'Elanna says.

“Anybody else in there?”

“No, ma’am,” B’Elanna says.

“I’ll meet you there. Janeway out.”

She’d been halfway through her third set when Janeway had called, but she hates doing half sets, so she does a full one, feeling her biceps and forearms burn with the extra work; her wrists ache, and her hands are a little swollen. She needs to lay off the booze. She’s struggling a little with number nine when Janeway walks in. She’s wearing civvies—cream linen trousers and an olive cowl neck sweater. She’s got an electrolyte sports drink in one hand, and she drapes herself languidly on the bench to B’Elanna’s right, propping her other elbow on the inclined head rest. They’re watching each other in the mirror. B’Elanna’s not usually too much of a stickler about sloppy hammer curls because when she gets to them she’s usually already pretty tired and she considers them kind of a secondary exercise to fill the time, but under Janeway’s gaze, she straightens her shoulders, doesn’t cheat with any rocking at all. The last three in her set are the most perfect hammer curls she’s ever done in her life, and Janeway’s got her smirk on. B'Elanna racks the weights and stands hovering near the rack as she towels off her hands and face.

“Wasn’t I just ribbing you this afternoon about hammer curls?”

“I took it as inspiration,” B’Elanna says. “So that I wouldn’t take a notion and inquire after the use of your bathtub.” Janeway looks her up and down and says,

“Well, they do both have their benefits.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“Don’t write checks you can’t cash, Captain.”

“Oh I’ve got plenty in the bank,” Janeway says. She tosses the bottle to B’Elanna, who catches it with one hand. She unscrews the cap, says,

“Hmm. Liquid assets.” Janeway laughs. She takes a drink, says, “So. You wanted to talk about something?” The smirk vanishes, and Janeway sits up straight. B'Elanna takes this to mean that something more serious than light banter is about to happen, so she takes a seat on the other bench. It’s set to decline, but she doesn’t bother adjusting it, just perches on the side facing Janeway who’s now doing the same. Janeway clears her throat, says,

“You know I love Voyager. She’s my first command, and she’s gotten us through a lot. She’s one of the most technologically advanced and aesthetically pleasing vessels in Starfleet—at least five years ago she was, anyway; who knows what they’ve got now—but for the life of me, I don’t know what Starfleet designers were thinking when they decided to make the walls so thin.”

“Ok…?” B'Elanna says, no idea where this could be going.

“So, I was in my quarters earlier, scrolling through the music database for what would be the best fit for a nice soak and reading some Walt Whitman—”

“Shostakovich,” B’Elanna says automatically, as if by call and response or catechism.

“Excuse me?” Janeway says.

“Sorry. I know you’re trying to set up a big reveal here, not asking for recommendations. But I like Whitman and Shostakovich together.”

“Oh. I—didn’t know you were into that sort of thing,” Janeway says. Should she use her containing multitudes line again? A quip about building up the body electric? She decides on,

“I’ve been known to hear what the talkers are talking, from time to time.” Janeway smiles, obviously knowing the reference. She says,

“I guess I’ll have to consult you next time I’m having a moment of indecision about such matters.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not that cosmopolitan. My literary interests extend only to Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, trashy Klingon romance written mostly under innuendo-laced pseudonyms, and Fannie Flagg.” Janeway raises an eyebrow, says,

“I’ll have to remember that.”

“You’re under no obligation. I’m just telling you so you don’t expect too much out of me.” B’Elanna says, but Janeway rolls her eyes, says,

“Any time I’ve set an expectation for you, you’ve exceeded it, so I won’t be discounting your opinions anytime soon, thanks. In fact, before I get back on topic, I’ve got to know: What do you listen to when you’re reading Emily Dickinson?”

“Not a specific composer or artist but a genre—Qo’noS First City fugue-funk,” B’Elanna says.

“I’m unfamiliar with it,” Janeway says.

“It’s remarkably chill and sensual for Klingon music. But it’s the meter, the rhythm that does it for me. The GarmoQ Quintet is in the database. When you get the chance, listen to their recording of ‘Honor, Glory, Latinum’ and substitute ‘My life had stood a loaded gun’ for the lyrics.” Janeway nods, hums, says,

“‘For I have but the power to kill without the power to die.’ Pretty Klingon sentiment now that I think about it. I’ll put it on my list.” 

She regards B’Elanna for a moment. And then her eyes shift to her hands folded in her lap. She clears her throat again and raises her gaze to look squarely into B’Elanna’s eyes. B’Elanna fidgets with the cap of the electrolyte sports drink. It’s not an angry look or even a disappointed look, but it’s a little pained and very serious, and she doesn't much like being on the receiving end of it although she can’t put her finger on exactly why, but she doesn’t have to be for long: Janeway stands and starts pacing along the weight racks, skimming a forefinger over the numbers on the dumbbells, starts talking again,

“I had been in the bathroom, adjusting the water temperature, and I had just come out to the living room to get my book and make a final decision about the music, when I heard voices just outside my door. Normally, I wouldn’t have paid too much attention, but the first voice was Seven’s, and she sounded upset, and I thought maybe I would need to go break up a fight in the hallway.”

B’Elanna is kicking herself internally. She should’ve registered where they had been on Deck 3 before she had stopped to stretch and try to better read Seven’s face. Rookie mistake. Janeway continues:

“But of course that wasn’t the case, as you know. Because you were the other voice. I caught just the tail end of the conversation, and I have to say. What I did hear was troubling enough to me that I actually skipped the bath and went to the gym instead.” B’Elanna almost chuckles at the thought of Janeway coping by exercising, but what she’s coping about is too much of a tar baby to make it actually funny. Janeway turns to face her, her fingers still on a forty-pound dumbbell, her face still serious, and B’Elanna says,

“I’m sorry, Captain. We really were not paying any kind of attention to where we were.”

“Obviously,” Janeway says. She puts two fingers to her temple, sighs, says, “Seven’s been especially stilted and weird with me lately, if she talks to me at all. So I guess I know why, at least. And you’re right. I am completely useless when I feel too guilty.” She sits on the bench next to B’Elanna and places her hand on B’Elanna’s knee. “I feel extremely guilty, for the record. I feel guilty for whatever sexual encounters my other self initiated that caused that level of emotion in Seven’s voice. And I feel guilty about whatever this deal is you have with her. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself just because you want to be a good friend to Seven.” 

B’Elanna had expected to have an awkward conversation about the rest of what Janeway had learned from her eavesdropping session, but she hadn’t been prepared for being accused of… well, doing pretty much the same thing Brigitte had done. She wonders if maybe a little Katrine is still rolling around in the deep recesses of Janeway’s brain, influencing her without her knowledge, planting little seeds of cynicism. Regardless, B’Elanna can’t think of much to say except,

“What?” Janeway hasn’t been looking at her as she’s been speaking, and she continues to speak facing directly ahead, a dramatic monologue rather than something to be interacted with:

“The walls are thin but not completely penetrable. There was a lot that came through garbled, but I know you two are planning something together.” She pauses, shakes her head. “If Seven’s uncomfortable with me and doesn’t want to talk to me about it, that’s fine. Not all friends confess all things to each other. I’m glad she’s expanding her social circle, surrounding herself with a variety of people with different emotional intelligences and skill sets, and if she has somebody else to talk to, I’m sure that will be sufficient, and you won’t need to—” She swallows, and B’Elanna saves her from having to say anything embarrassing for either of them. She puts her hand over Janeway’s on her knee, says,

“I don’t think you spent long enough at the gym.” Janeway finally does look at her, and it’s a quizzical look, and B’Elanna continues, “If you’d actually worked out enough to get your mind right, you’d never have come up with that nonsense.” Janeway scoffs, and a little tension has visibly been eased in her as she says,

“I heard that nonsense with my own two ears!”

“You heard that nonsense partially with your own two ears from across a wall and filled in the gaps with self-loathing,” B’Elanna says as she squeezes her hand. They look at each other. Janeway says,

“Ok. So I misheard and then I misinterpreted. At any rate, I suppose it’s none of my business.” B’Elanna looks down at their joined hands and figures she probably owes Janeway a better explanation than just that. She says,

“It’s not, but you probably ought to know the truth anyway.”

The door swishes open, and Tuvok, Megan Delaney, Mike Ayala, and Tal Celes walk in. It’s a weird enough quartet that B’Elanna assumes they’ve just happened to come at the same time. But Tuvok nods at Janeway and then joins the other three in some kind of guided group stretching on the wrestling mats at the other end of the gym. B’Elanna looks at the chronometer on the wall, says,

“I’ve got somewhere to be pretty soon, but I’d like to continue this conversation somewhere private.” Janeway says,

“I was thinking of being in that same somewhere pretty soon. Maybe we could have a drink afterward.” B’Elanna takes her hand off Janeway’s, uses it to scratch her neck as she tries to figure out how to navigate the situation. She manages to say merely,

“Um. Well.”

“Of course,” Janeway says, making a dismissive and self-deprecating hand gesture. “Who would want to have a drink and a chat after something like that?”

“I always want a drink and a chat with you. It’s not that,” B’Elanna says and pauses. “It’s just that. Seven’ll be there. I invited her after we’d passed your quarters on our little stroll.”

“Oh,” Janeway says.

The door swishes open again, and Deb Lang walks in, crosses straight to the incline bench. She tips her baseball cap and smiles at them and adjusts the bench to level and then goes to the weight rack. B’Elanna nudges Janeway with her elbow, says,

“I’ll walk you back to your quarters.”


	9. Chapter 9

Each step in the direction toward Janeway’s quarters had rendered Janeway more stiff and formal—she’d started out a reasonable approximation of relaxed and nonchalant, but as they’d gotten closer to their destination on the short, silent walk, the whole thing had gotten to feeling more and more like the green mile. So now, they’re standing at the doorway. B’Elanna’s wondering if this is the right course of action. A drink afterward—even if not directly after but at some unspecified after time—would’ve probably been better. A little time to sit with their respective thoughts, a little time to come to terms with what those respective thoughts might mean in both the short and long term.

They’re at Janeway's door, and it’s probably time for B’Elanna to go—she’d said she’d walk Janeway home, nothing about any socializing inside—but she lingers anyway against her better judgement, bouncing on the balls of her feet. They look at each other, a sideways sort of look that’s mostly guilty glance.

Janeway says,

“I know you’ve got someplace to be soon. But. Would you like to come in for a minute?”

“As if I could ever say no to you,” B’Elanna says.

The door swishes, and they both enter. Janeway turns to her, so very serious, says,

“Are you unable or unwilling to say no to me? There’s a difference, after all.”

“It was just a line. Didn’t mean anything,” B’Elanna says. Janeway hums, says,

“Maybe so.” She takes another look at her and then crosses to the replicator, says, “Drink?”

“Whatever you’re having,” B’Elanna says.

Two bourbons materialize, and Janeway extends one to B’Elanna and then sits heavily on the settee.

B'Elanna stands just off to the side of the replicator still. She had meant this time together to be a confession, an honest connection. But there had been that ominous walk here, and there’s Janeway retreating into herself with her bourbon, thinking horrible things and waiting for more horrible things to come. As much as B’Elanna has been thinking all kinds of crazy stuff in the past couple weeks, she’s realizing that everyone else has been thinking all kinds of crazy stuff, too. Seven’s got a particular brand of crazy stuff; Nicolietti’s got a particular brand of crazy stuff; Chakotay’s got a particular brand of crazy stuff. And Janeway. Her crazy stuff is particularly dense and layered.

“You’ve got half an hour yet,” Janeway says, her voice low and deep and gravelly and so, so tired. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to get a shower in instead of sitting here in the dark with me.”

“I’ve got half an hour yet, and I’d rather make the most of it,” B’Elanna says and sits next to Janeway on the settee.

“I thought you walked me home so you could tell me the truth,” Janeway says with a humorless laugh.

“Truthfully, I offered to walk you home because the gym was getting crowded, and I didn’t want anybody to see that I was blushing because you had your hand on my knee.” Janeway shoots her a look. She tries to interpret the look, but she gets distracted watching Janeway’s lips at the edge of her crystal tumbler and then the muscles of her throat as she swallows a drink.

“Careful, Lieutenant. Flattery will get you anywhere,” Janeway says, but her voice is flat—sarcastic rather than flirtatious.

“I’ll have to write that in my diary,” B’Elanna says, matching her dryness. She doesn’t feel it, but she figures she’ll be met with only suspicion if she continues trying to flirt her way out or if she jumps straight to sincere. If B’Elanna’s learned anything at all about Janeway, it’s that she’s a tactician at heart and therefore responds best to other tacticians.

“If you were the type to keep a diary, I might be even more flattered.” Her voice is still flat but not quite so sarcastic. B’Elanna takes this as her inroad to wiggle in inch by inch, says,

“And you’re sure an expert on what type I am, aren’t you?” Janeway barks a laugh and takes another drink. B’Elanna watches her throat again but also catches a minuscule upturn at the corner of her mouth as she hums, says,

“I try to pay attention to my crewmembers. You’re the type to ‘swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count.’” The flatness is gone—Janeway’s said this with sing-song lyricism—but the sarcasm is back, playfully rather than bitingly now. There’s the wiggle room B’Elanna’s been seeking.

“I can’t say you’re wrong. But I also can’t see how those types couldn’t overlap,” B’Elanna says as she finally sips at her bourbon. She’s not prepared for the wood and butterscotch and alcohol taste of it, and she shivers as the liquid slides down her throat to settle in a pile of embers in her first stomach.

“Ah. Well,” Janeway says, matter-of-fact. There’s something in the set of Janeway’s shoulders that ignites something in B’Elanna.

“Well what, then?” B’Elanna says.

“Don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to,” Janeway says.

“Far be it from me,” B’Elanna says.

B’Elanna downs the entirety of the drink that Janeway had handed her and sets the empty glass on the coffee table. She turns. They’re looking at each other. B’Elanna places her hand on Janeway’s thigh. B’Elanna feels a shudder under her palm, hears a shudder in Janeway’s breath. Janeway says,

“Oh?”

“This is the truth,” B’Elanna says. 

They look at each other again.

And B’Elanna leans in and kisses Janeway. 

Their lips meet dryly and chastely at first, and then B’Elanna snakes her tongue in, tracing the crease of Janeway’s lips, and those lips open, and B'Elanna’s tongue is in Janeway’s mouth. They kiss and kiss, one of B’Elanna’s hands gripping Janeway’s thigh and the other tangled in her hair and Janeway’s fingers digging into B’Elanna’s ribs. B’Elanna kisses and sucks and pulls and cajoles until Janeway is straddling her lap, their hips undulating together. The olive cowl neck sweater and the Starfleet issue brassiere have been tossed aside, and B’Elanna’s got a nipple between her teeth. Janeway cuts a moan short to say,

“Damn it.” She pushes off at B’Elanna’s shoulders so she can sit up straight and pinch the bridge of her nose. She says, “I am such a fool.” B'Elanna leans back on the couch, still breathless, heart still beating fast and hard, trying to ignore the weight of Janeway’s body still in her lap, the heat of her, the smell of her. The abruptness of the shift and the self-reproach in her voice signal that this will be shut down and compartmentalized in about five seconds.

“You’re a fool in what way?” B’Elanna says.

“In every way,” Janeway says.


	10. Chapter 10

“You are late,” Seven, standing almost casually to the right of Conference Room 2’s door, says as B’Elanna approaches.

“So are you, it looks like,” B’Elanna says.

“Incorrect. I arrived promptly, but I have been waiting for you.”

“Why? Afraid Nicoletti’ll hit on you?” Seven shifts to her rigid stance with her hands behind her back. She says,

“No, Lieutenant. I. Didn’t want to attend without you.” Seven looks her same old Borg way, so maybe B’Elanna’s projecting a little bit of a wounded look into her eyes because she’s reminded of her roommate at the Academy who hadn’t especially liked her but had insisted on dragging her along to mixers because she had hated going to parties alone and not knowing anybody. Of course, Seven doesn’t not know anybody; she supposes it’s the principle—there’d been a tacit agreement that they’re a team now, regarding this anyway. B’Elanna feels suddenly as though she’d not just been stupid and impulsive for making that pass at Janeway but that maybe she’s betrayed her teammate by not consulting her about it first, too.

“I get that. Sorry. I—” She’s about to confess her sins, but then she doesn’t want to color the emotional landscape too much before the group thing tonight because Seven really does need it, in her armchair psychologist opinion. “Nevermind. It’ll give us something to talk about on our walk tomorrow.”

“I have not agreed to another social engagement with you. And if you are going to make a habit of being late, I don’t believe I would be interested.” 

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to be content never knowing about what I was up to in Janeway’s quarters that caused me to be late.” Seven’s eyebrow crooks, and B’Elanna is again reminded of her old roomie, who had been very upset that she’d abandoned her for half a house party until they had reconvened in the den, and B’Elanna had given her all the details about having made out with the Parrises squares team captain and gotten his twin brother’s number for her—they’d been nursing secret crushes on each other for weeks. Of course, that time had been wins all the way down. This tidbit she’s dangling in front of Seven—which why is she doing that in the first place? She wants to talk to her about it and she wants to go on that walk with her tomorrow, she realizes, a little annoyed at herself about both items—is not a certified win. It’d been nice while it had lasted, but she hadn’t even gotten to hear a lecture about impropriety or impertinence, not even any self-loathing masochism from Janeway about duty. Just a curt, “Give Lieutenant Nicoletti my regards,” as she had been shown out the door. It’s not the worst way she’s ever been kicked out of somebody’s place, but she’d hoped for a little more discussion or, if she’s being honest, a little less discussion and a little more nudity.

“You were in the Captain’s quarters this evening,” Seven says. B’Elanna can’t tell if Seven’s intrigued or uncomfortable or both. 

“Briefly.”

“Elaborate.”

“You’re on Beta tomorrow, aren’t you? We could get in a nice little walk on my lunch break.”

“Are you bargaining with me, Lieutenant?” Seven says.

“Is it working?” Seven shifts again into her more neutral posture, unclasping her hands and letting them hang at her sides. She says,

“Perhaps tomorrow I can introduce you to nutritional supplement M-3. It has a pleasant texture and an inoffensive flavor.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“Now that that’s settled. Are we joining this group meeting tonight, or what?”

“Well. We are already here, after all,” Seven says.

“Can’t argue with that logic,” B’Elanna says. She steps into the door sensor’s radius, and the door swishes open, and they both enter.

Lydia Anderson, Mike Ayala, Sean Murphy, Susan Nicoletti, and Samantha Wildman are sitting around the conference table with a jigsaw puzzle laid out in the middle, various drinks on coasters strewn around, a plate of pizza rolls here and a vegetable tray there, uniform jackets on chair backs. 

“I’m still hung up on the ‘chicken’ part of Neelix’s Ultimate Chicken Fry. Like… even in his description of what it originally was supposed to be, there’s no chicken involved,” Murphy is saying as he tries to fit a puzzle piece by quarter turns and finally finds the sweet spot and presses it in.

“Maybe it was at some point made with chicken but then beef ended up being more inexpensive and accessible but the name had already stuck?” Anderson says as she’s sorting pieces into different piles.

“Not to be ‘that guy,’ but my dad was really into traditional American cooking. So. Actually, the ultimate chicken fry is a dressed up version of a chicken-fried steak, which is called that because it’s a steak that is fried in a way that is typically reserved for chicken,” Ayala says as he links some edge pieces to a corner piece.

There are a couple of “oh I see” type sounds from some of the group and a couple “you’re bullshitting me” type sounds from some of the group. 

Wildman’s the first one to see them as she lifts her head to reach toward the pizza rolls. She blushes, smiles, waves, says,

“Hi.” She wipes her palms on her slacks and then rises to greet them at the door. “I thought Sue was just spinning a tall tale when she said you two might join us. I’m glad I was wrong.”

“As am I. I have already been edified having heard the etymology of the ultimate chicken fry,” Seven says. Wildman laughs and as she does so rests her hand on Seven’s shoulder. B’Elanna takes notice of this because Seven doesn’t flinch at all and Wildman does it so freely; it’s as if they do this sort of thing all the time.

“If I’d known you were interested, I might’ve loaned you my copy of ‘The Joy of Cooking.’” Wildman says.

“I had not previously known I was interested, but I found the explanation fascinating. However, I will keep your hypothetical offer in mind if I ever develop a taste for gelatin salads or chiffon cakes,” Seven says, and Wildman laughs again as she squeezes Seven’s shoulder.

“Don’t discount pot roast, Seven,” Wildman says. But then she retracts her hand; her face gets serious. She says, “I’m sorry I didn’t invite you myself. I didn’t have any idea you remembered. If I’d known—”

“It is unlikely that the Hirogen occupation would come up in polite conversation, especially when so much of the crew is so adamant about pretending the incident never occurred. It is completely reasonable that you would be focused on yourself and your own healing. It is also reasonable that you would recognize certain signs of distress that are similar to your own and reach out to individuals with such symptoms, which I do not typically display,” Seven says.

“You’re right, as usual, but I still feel as though I’ve failed you a little,” Wildman says.

“Guilt is a useless emotion,” Seven says. “But I’m learning that even the most useless emotions have value personally or for social capital.”

Wildman smiles a tight little smile at that. And as tight and little as it is, there are her beautiful dimples. She says,

“I was raised Catholic, so I’ve always thought guilt is the most useful emotion. But I joined Starfleet because I was interested in different opinions, and I welcome yours especially.” She smiles at Seven for a beat and then finally seems to register that B’Elanna’s there, too. She drags her eyes away from Seven, looks at B’Elanna, says, “So, Chief. You’re in this boat with us, too, then?”

“Throw me an oar,” B’Elanna says.


	11. Chapter 11

“Now what’s this about, then?” B’Elanna says as she picks up the top of the puzzle box. “‘Draylax: The Capital City by Night’?” She tosses the box back to its original spot on the conference table. “We haven’t been able to use replicators recreationally for ages. I’ve got rations burning a hole in my pocket. I was under the impression there’d be some light gambling this evening.” Anderson—oh, shoot, AA rules so first names only—Lydia, that is, turns to glare at B’Elanna. 

She’s always sensed a little antipathy from her, the origin of which she hasn’t been able to trace exactly. Unless, of course, she’d overheard her that night in Sandrine’s when she and Tom and Harry had been good and drunk and had been ranking the Security officers by hotness. B’Elanna can’t remember why they’d been doing that. She claws at her brain, attempting to jiggle the memory of it loose. She knows the three of them, especially when they’re together and a little inebriated, can definitely slide into juvenile behavior at the drop of a hat, but they typically try not to be too superficial or vulgar or judgey in their antics. But what specifically had precipitated this incident? Ah yes, there had been some kind of mildly intriguing event in which an alien visitor, who’d been a really fun guy to hang out with until he’d tried to steal some phasers, had had to be escorted off the ship, and Harry, who can’t hold his liquor and is always the first to say something he doesn’t mean to let slip, had said, “Well, if the poor guy had to be manhandled out of here, at least it was the two hottest Security officers who had done the manhandling.” Tom and B’Elanna had looked at him quizzically, neither having even paid any attention to who had shown him the door, and Harry had immediately gone bright pink at his cheek bones and the tips of his ears. That development had, of course, prompted Tom to inquire as to which Security officers Harry had been referring, and that line of questioning had inevitably led to an in-depth discussion and complicated ranking system. Lydia had been a respectable fifth place in B’Elanna’s list (1. Deb Lang; 2. Tuvok; 3. Mike Ayala; 4. Tim Lang; 5. Lydia Anderson), but she could see how the whole idea might be offensive to a certain type of person. She wonders if Lydia, if she had indeed overheard this conversation, had immediately gathered with a couple of her pals and had started ranking Engineering crew or Bridge officers or Senior Staff. Probably not, judging by the admonitory look Anderson’s giving her now.

“And I was under the impression this was a safe space, not a casino,” Anderson says.

“I’ve always felt very safe in casinos,” Nicoletti says, true to form saving the mood with an asshole comment. “I lost a mini-PADD in a casino once and went to the security station to ask about it. They had it, but they made me describe my lock screen to verify that it was really mine. And let me tell you, my lock screen was very embarrassing at the time.”

“Sue. When, exactly, have you ever had a lock screen that wasn’t embarrassing?” Sean Murphy says, and that finally makes Anderson laugh and therefore stop looking at B’Elanna with those cold hard eyes. Nicoletti shrugs amiably and un-self-consciously. B’Elanna laughs then, too, but not really about Nicoletti’s lock-screen choices, rather because she knows damn good and well that somebody would have to bring a sack lunch if they were to try to truly embarrass Susan Nicoletti.

Samantha Wildman sidles up next to her, offering the pizza roll plate, says,

“Sorry, Chief. I’m afraid the puzzle is my fault. When I heard that there was a chance we’d have extra participants this evening, even though I was skeptical, I suggested an activity better suited to a larger group. Six is the limit for Hearts, and splitting into two sections would defeat the purpose of our meeting.”

“And of course, you didn’t want to have to relinquish your title as Queen of Hearts,” B’Elanna says. Samantha winks, smiles broadly—the smile shows off those beautiful dimples. B’Elanna thinks suddenly about what Harry and Tom’s individual rankings of Science officers might entail. She knows who would be at the top of her own list. Samantha says,

“Not a concern, seeing as how you don’t even seem to know that the only relevant queen in the game of Hearts is the Queen of Spades.”

“I didn’t mean I would unseat you from the throne. I was talking about Seven.” She finally chooses the pizza roll that looks as though it has the best burn on it. An underdone pizza roll isn’t worth it. Samantha leans in closer, says conspiratorially,

“Not worried about her, either. I know all her tells from kadis-kot.”

“Some people do do things simply out of kindness and to benefit the greatest number of other individuals,” Seven says. She can’t tell in what spirit Seven has said this. It’s almost as if she’s trying to convince herself of it rather than trying to rib B’Elanna, but also, although she’s said it to B’Elanna, she’s now looking at Wildman with a kind of soft and maybe curious expression. An interesting development that B’Elanna puts in her pocket for later. Maybe she should be playing rank the Science officer with Seven over a couple of beers. Does Seven drink beer? She’s now wondering what kind of a drunk Seven is. Maybe competitive, like the type to challenge everybody to arm wrestling. Yeah that’s probably exactly right.

She takes a seat across from Wildman to afford Seven the opportunity to sit between them if she so chooses and also so that she can have a good view of both their faces if Seven so chooses. It’s shaping up to be pretty fun to be Seven’s friend so far.

“So how does this go, then?” B’Elanna says. “Do we start with reading the minutes from the last meeting? Or does somebody just—”

“We’ve all been doing it for a while already, so we’ve got a lot of the, like, preliminary stuff out of the way, so now we just kind of talk about whatever organically comes up. Like if somebody’s had a disturbing dream or a flashback or whatever. Any progress in getting rid of feeling like a different person. That sort of thing,” Nicoletti says.

“Hmm,” B’Elanna says. “Well. Would it be too much to ask everybody to kind of… I don’t know, give us a rundown on their alternate lives, to catch us up?”

“Yeah that’s probably best,” Murphy says. “So you don’t feel like you’re in the dark. Um I was on some planet I didn’t recognize, pre-warp, jungle. Not sure I even had a name; I was just some rando caveman with whatever tools I could come up with on my own out of rocks and tree limbs and whatnot.”

“Yikes,” B’Elanna says.

“I’ll drink to that,” Murphy says, and he tips his beer bottle to B’Elanna and then takes a swig.

“Me, too,” Ayala says, lifting his beer bottle, as well. And then, “Lydia and I were Norse pirates, and the Hirogen made sure we had scurvy before they attacked our ship. It was quite ugly.”

“Yeah, and I was anxious the whole time that somebody was going to find out I was not actually a man,” Anderson says. She clinks her bottle with Ayala’s and drinks, too.

“I was a Civil War nurse with Sue,” Wildman says. “If you’ve never had the opportunity to hold a man down as a doctor who hasn’t even washed his hands between patients cuts that man’s leg off at the knee, I do not recommend it.” B’Elanna and Seven share a look.

“I hope that guy was a hologram,” B’Elanna says.

“Fortunately. Although I didn’t know that at the time, of course,” Wildman says.

“Sounds like Seven and I had it easy in WWII. We had indoor plumbing and everything,” B’Elanna says, feeling guilty that she’s letting this other stupid person influence her so much when the stuff she had seen and done hadn’t been nearly as bad as being a rando nameless caveman or a Civil War nurse. 

“You allowed a Nazi to impregnate you in exchange for information that eventually led us to liberate the town,” Seven says. B’Elanna shrugs. Small potatoes it seems like to her, but it’s nice that Seven feels the need to defend her, even from herself.

“That’s kind of the main thing here, though,” Wildman says. “It’s not a misery competition. We’re just here to listen to each other and encourage each other. Exchange strategies.”

“Ok. Got it,” B’Elanna says, but she doesn’t exactly get it. She gets that part of it, sure—that’s just best practices for any group therapy operation—but the thing she doesn’t get is how they’re meant to just talk about stuff organically without a facilitator. Who wants to be the first one to bring up a topic? “Say, I was in the sonic shower the other day and started crying because I suddenly remembered that a Nazi killed Brigitte’s dog right in front of her, just to be a dick.” Seems as though there’d be a lot of sitting around not talking about anything at all without somebody to move things along productively.

“I have a question,” Seven says. She had, of course, forgotten the audacity factor. Seven’s the kind of person to just go ahead and say stuff. And so’s Nicoletti. So maybe that’s why this thing works. They all look at Seven and wait. She says, “Were any of you involved in an intimate relationship with another character?” They all exchange some quick, furtive glances. This is obviously something that has come up before and is awkward every time. Wildman clears her throat, and Murphy downs the rest of his beer. Seven continues, “I see. Were your partners holograms or other crewmen?”

“Some of us had one of each!” Nicoletti says. Wildman smacks her on the shoulder, and B’Elanna’s cheeks heat. An argument could be made that she had technically had one of each, however far off the hologram’s yucky sex had been and however pure and banal Tom’s romance had been.

“I do not mean to belabor the point, but I would like to know, if your partner was another crewman, is your current relationship with that crewman… strained?”

“Henley laughed me out of the room when I told her about what happened on rando caveman planet,” Murphy says. “I’m actually a lot closer with her now, but I think that has a lot to do with how tickled she was about the ridiculousness of the mating practices and especially the fact that I shared her with three other dudes.”

“But not all of us were fortunate enough to get paired up with somebody so open minded,” Anderson says. “There’s no way I would ever tell Fitzpatrick that not only did we have sex, but also he thought I was a man at the time.”

“But what they’re not telling you is that we’ve discussed this before,” Nicoletti says. “And neither of these two lucky bastards are that bothered about it because in their simulations they weren’t actually like… in love with these people.”

“Right. Yeah, I should’ve mentioned that,” Murphy says. “All just biology and ritual for me, so I didn’t feel any weirder standing next to Henley in the turbolift afterward than I would have if I’d had a dirty dream about her because it just wasn’t that deep.”

“And Fitzpatrick and I. He was the ship’s cook, and I wanted extra potatoes,” Anderson says. “I don’t see him all that often anyway, so it’s easy to just forget about it most of the time.”

“And of course, it’s not so bad for me, either, because I just don’t have a normal sense of shame,” Nicoletti says. Wildman clears her throat again and then says,

“It’s just such a weird thing. Every time I see Megan Delaney, I don’t know whether I’m attracted to her or if I subconsciously remember what it was like to be attracted to her and my body does the rest without my permission.”

“I am familiar with that peculiar sensation,” Seven says.

“She even smells the same. It’s disconcerting,” Wildman says.

“Did—” Seven starts and then pauses. If B’Elanna didn’t know better, she would swear that Seven’s got some color in her cheeks, as if she’s blushing. Seven says, “This is not a universal experience for this group, and I have many questions. Perhaps we could discuss this privately?”

“Sure. Dinner tomorrow maybe?” Wildman says. Nicoletti is elbowing B’Elanna in the ribs softly but frantically, and B’Elanna elbows her back to get her to cut it out and gives her a look to convey that she’s seeing the same thing.

“If you are amenable to a late dinner. I am on Beta shift,” Seven says.

“Great! Naomi’ll be in bed, so we can eat something other than macaroni and cheese.”

Nicoletti leans into B’Elanna and starts to whisper in her ear, but B’Elanna elbows her with a touch of actual force this time. She does not want to hear whatever lewd thing she’s about to say.

“So,” B’Elanna says. She’s waffled from her previous assessment and believes she had been right initially about the necessity for a facilitator or, barring that, an agenda. She may be a Maquis asshole, but she does appreciate a well-run meeting. “Does anybody have a dream they’d like to share?” Murphy looks at her with his brow scrunched and then laughs, says,

“That’s not how this works. We don’t exactly follow parliamentary procedure or anything.”

“You let Seven ask a question,” B’Elanna says.

“That’s because hers was relevant and something she is obviously struggling with. She wasn’t just trying to speed things along so she can get out of here and go do something else,” Anderson says. There’s that antipathy again. Maybe it isn’t about the Security rankings. Maybe it’s from that Prixin party where she had wanted to skip the last four (of sixteen, mind you) carols and get to the piñata already. Anderson had been the choir director, and she’d certainly spent a lot of time and effort preparing those carols, and maybe B’Elanna’s impatience had seemed like a personal slight.

“Ok. Sorry. I guess I’ll just work on sorting green pieces and mind my business,” B’Elanna says.

“Not a bad idea,” Anderson says. Seven turns abruptly, says,

“B’Elanna Torres. I have developed a headache. Will you accompany me to Cargo Bay 2 and help me recalibrate my cortical node?”

“Uh yeah of course,” B’Elanna says. 

B’Elanna waves her goodbyes, and Seven nods her goodbyes, and they exit.

In the corridor, Seven says,

“I do not have a headache.”

“I know. Thanks for getting me out of there.”

“You’re welcome, but again I must admit I did so selfishly. It was an inefficient use of time.”

“Right?! I’m a big fan of bullshitting for bullshitting’s sake, but I want my therapy to have some structure,” B’Elanna says. Seven stops walking and stares at B’Elanna and then there’s that quizzical look and the laugh to follow.

“I do not believe I have ever ‘bullshitted’ for the sake of ‘bullshitting.’ Is this something you would be able to tutor me about, or is it something better learned from experience?” Seven says.

“Oh definitely the latter. But I can help you start. Your top five hottest Science officers. Go,” B’Elanna says.

“I don’t understand,” Seven says.

“We’re bullshitting just to bullshit, and I’m asking you to rank Science officers on this vessel in order of physical attractiveness. It’s subjective. My list will be different from yours, and we can debate and defend our choices. It’s a fun thought exercise.”

“It’s not considered rude to do this?”

“Oh it is. But a lot of bullshitting is rude. That’s why you do it with people you trust,” B’Elanna says.

“Very well.” Seven stands straight and formal, her gaze fixed on a point over B’Elanna’s left shoulder. After a few seconds, she nods and looks again into B’Elanna’s eyes, says, “Number 1. Ensign Wildman. 2. Ensign Jurot. 3. Crewman Tal. 4. Ensign Gallagher. 5. Crewman Jennifer Delaney.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“Good picks! I always forget about Gallagher, but she really is a babe and a half.”

“Is this when I ask for your list in return? So that we may debate?”

“You got it, sis. However. I don’t think there’s too much to debate on this one, honestly. Except that technically, Janeway is a Science officer, so she’s my first pick, but then the rest are pretty much the same. I might bump Gallagher up to my number three, though. And switch Tal and Jurot. Jurot’s smoking hot, but I don’t like the idea of somebody reading my mind.” Seven cocks her head and seems to be studying B’Elanna.

“You find Ensign Wildman physically attractive?” Seven says.

“Those dimples are killer.” Seven again seems to be studying her, but also her eyes are a little glassy, as if she’s doing some introspection, too. B’Elanna says, “What are you hung up on? Maybe we can get to the bottom of it together.” Seven shifts her weight, and B’Elanna’s suspicious she’s a little agitated and doesn’t know what to do with her limbs, so B’Elanna starts walking toward the stairwell to give them both something to do. Seven matches her quick pace, says,

“The Doctor and I were talking about romance 8.125 days ago. He asked if I experienced symptoms of arousal in anyone’s presence. I did not wish to disclose that I remembered the events of the Hirogen occupation because I knew he would want to run many invasive tests and urge me to talk endlessly about the details and my feelings about those details, so I chose to not mention the involuntary responses the Captain’s presence engendered. But as I was thinking about that, I realized I exhibited the same sorts of involuntary responses when I was near Ensign Wildman, but at those times I experienced feelings of pleasant anticipation. When the Captain touched my arm, my body responded. But when Ensign Wildman touched me, my body and something else entirely responded. I was very confused by this. I still am very confused by this. But I am no longer explaining myself linearly. I apologize. The Doctor asked if I experienced symptoms of arousal in anyone’s presence, and I told him I did and that the person was Ensign Wildman. I had expected that he would advise me on a course of action or guide me through my thoughts, but he instead changed the subject to table settings. So, I deduced that Ensign Wildman was not an appropriate potential romantic partner.”

“He wants to fuck you. Never believe anything, especially if it’s counterintuitive, from a man who wants to fuck you.” Seven looks at her, visibly digesting her words.

“I will take that under advisement,” Seven says.


	12. Chapter 12

Elevation is on ten, and speed is on eight. B’Elanna knows she won’t last long running on the treadmill like this, but she had wanted something that would quickly exhaust her, something that would make her sweat immediately, something that would physically make her body vomit up the toxins of that dream, and she doesn’t much care if she literally or figuratively vomits. Either is probably equally cathartic at this point.

The nightmare this time had been, of all things, the fucking Vidiians. Ancient history. Between three and five of Tuvok’s ill-advised mind-melds with dangerous elements ago. 

And mercy sakes alive, had this one been a doozy. It had started off straight-up memory, which is how all the worst nightmares start. That’s how they trick you into really investing emotionally, how they lure you into believing all the crazy stuff that comes after the genuine memory ends and the mechanics of the narrative shift to nuttier and nuttier avenues and worse and worse scenarios. 

So it had started with her, fully human, having a nice little chat with her fully Klingon self—the real conversation they’d had in her real memory—and then instead of Klingon B’Elanna dying in her arms, the conversation had continued and encompassed more than just existential pain and in fact was a quite pleasant hypothetical discussion about what sports they would be better at now that they were no longer mixed. Klingon B’Elanna had suggested that Human B’Elanna might be really good at long-distance swimming: now that her body wasn’t so dense, maybe she wouldn’t have to work so hard not to sink like a concrete block. But then they’d been interrupted with a Red Alert klaxon. Perhaps the setting had begun as the Vidiian ship, but somewhere along the way, it had transformed into Voyager’s Bridge, and they had been under attack, but no one on the Bridge even had seemed to be bothered. Chakotay had been reading an old-fashioned glossy magazine. Tom had been asleep. Janeway had strolled in from her ready room and had said, “Oh. If it isn’t the Torres twins. Just flew in from Engineering, and boy are your arms tired!” And then Janeway had sashayed over to Klingon B’Elanna and said, “If the ship’s not blown up by then, go ahead and stop by my quarters tonight. Wear those red panties I like. And tell your sister not to wait up.” It was at this point of the dream that B’Elanna had been aware of what both B’Elannas had been thinking. Prior to this, she had been experiencing it exclusively from Human B’Elanna’s point of view. And now, in this moment, Klingon B’Elanna had been insanely horny, and Human B’Elanna had been insanely jealous, but she had thrown up her hands to show she hadn’t been offended and then had said, “Qapla’!”

As B’Elanna runs and thinks through the dream, she imagines attempting to tell someone about it. The overt plot of it is weird but not objectively nightmarish. It wouldn’t sound as sinister and claustrophobic and foreboding as it still feels to her. Maybe it had been the coloring, the high contrast bizarreness of the quickly changing images, or the tense, taut way everyone had appeared so casual on the surface but there’d been a through-line of doom underneath. Maybe it had been the feeling of being in a body that hadn’t exactly been hers. Yeah, that’s probably it. Too much like being Brigitte, who had also been fully human and pretending things were normal when really her world had been in a constant state of upheaval.

She feels her thighs burning and the nausea starting in her lower stomach. She can do thirty more seconds before she really will vomit.

Lying supine on one of the wrestling mats, arms and legs outstretched, she stares at the blank ceiling, and her mind is just as blank, mercifully. Maybe she does like running, after all. Of course, what she had just done had been essentially a sprint, so still anaerobic. She laughs out loud at herself.

“I recognize that particular pose and that manic laughter,” a voice somewhere above her and to the left says. “It’s the exact same pose and laughter I do after I’ve had a nightmare and then punched the heavy bag until I collapse. Mind if I join you?” It’s Samantha Wildman. She’s standing near her left shoulder now in her spandex shorts and cotton tank top with a towel slung around her neck, just like a boxer. Of course, they run into each other in the gym all the time, and she knows very well that Wildman’s a southpaw who never has any trouble following through on a punch. Huh. She now wonders what kind of a drunk Wildman would be. If Seven’s competitive and challenging everybody to arm wrestling—she’s got to test that theory sooner rather than later; when’s the next holiday party?—would Wildman be the impulsive drunk who can get talked into anything? She bets she’s a flirty drunk who likes to sit in people’s laps and too loudly whisper silly things in people’s ears. 

“Have at it,” B’Elanna says, as she brings her limbs in closer to make room on the mat. “Although, it’s not as effective if you haven’t tired yourself out first.” Wildman lays herself out on the mat next to her, stretches her arms over her head, says,

“Hmm true. But my nightmare last night wasn’t really bad enough to over exert myself. Just bad enough to wake me up for the night.”

“Small blessings, I guess,” B’Elanna says. Wildman laughs, says,

“Do you want to talk about yours?”

“No. It wouldn’t make any sense. What about you? You want to talk about yours?”

“Mine makes no sense either, but I think you’ll get a kick out of it. All the dead Harry Kims came back to life and were in a barbershop quartet together.” B’Elanna can’t help but laugh about that, and Wildman joins her, then says, “I know. It was really kind of a delightful dream. They were singing ‘By the Light of the Silvery Moon’ at a county fair or something in these super cute matching suits and straw boater hats, and I was in the front row just clapping and clapping. I wasn’t upset about it until I woke up and registered how weird it was.”

“Wow. Harry’s a good musician, but honestly, I don’t think he has the range to be an entire barbershop quartet.”

“Maybe one of the deaths made his voice deeper and another made it higher. Because it was an amazing performance. Ten out of ten, would dream again.”

“Maybe next time they’ll do ‘Buffalo Gals,’” B’Elanna says.

“Oh that’s one of my favorites! If only dreams took requests,” Wildman says. They both laugh, and then there’s a pause. “Um. Chief. Since we’re here alone bullshitting at 0500, maybe now’s a good time to ask you something about last night.” B’Elanna perks up. Seven’s been so adamant about hooking her up with Janeway. Maybe this is her chance to be a wingman for Seven. 

“Absolutely. What’s up?” B’Elanna says.

“That’s pretty much my question exactly,” Wildman says. B’Elanna can feel her eyes on her and turns her head. Wildman’s on her side, propped up on her elbow, staring at her. “That was a completely fabricated headache.”

“Well yeah. Seven and I are assholes and didn’t feel like hanging out anymore, so she came up with a semi-plausible lie, and we left.”

“And you two didn’t think the rest of us would gossip about that after you left?”

“Not exactly something either of us worry about,” B’Elanna says. Of course, she doesn’t really know whether Seven worries about what other people say about her behind her back, but she’s reasonably certain they share a common disinterest about that sort of thing. Sure, B’Elanna does a lot of overthinking and imagining what other people might also be overthinking or how their personalities might subtly change when intoxicated, but she doesn’t spend a lot of time or energy on true gossip for gossip’s sake, and she honestly doesn’t fully understand the concept. She’d tried to understand. She’d read plenty of books about petty, superficial people. She’d joined plenty of conversations during her Academy days about who was getting fat and who was fucking whom only to be looked at funny when she had postulated too many theories as to why the events were transpiring rather than just adding titilating details or scathing remarks.

“Small blessings,” Wildman says, an echo that rings in B’Elanna’s brain. She props herself up on her elbow, too. She says,

“You haven’t asked your question yet.”

“I suppose I haven’t,” Wildman says. She fingers the seam of the towel for a moment and then, “It was brave of you two to come to the meeting last night together. It must have been so strange for you. I mean, I can hardly look Megan Delaney in the eye, and here you and Seven are reassuring and protecting each other and trying to move ahead as a newly platonic unit. None of us could fathom how you’d both managed that kind of balance and confidence.”

B’Elanna stares at Wildman, takes in her sympathetic blue-green eyes and her strong, boxer’s shoulders and her wispy, staticky blonde hair coming free from her ponytail. This is an earnest woman with earnest faculties, and still there’s been a miscommunication somewhere that has led to a false conclusion.

“Well,” B’Elanna says. “It’s not a matter of moral fortitude. It’s just that the gossip mill has it wrong. Seven’s unnamed crewman lover in a fraught Hirogen simulation was not me. Seven and I have achieved a certain amount of balance and confidence with ourselves and each other because we’re both stubborn and therefore have forced each other to reveal weaknesses to each other that we normally would not have. But make no mistake: My Brigitte and Seven’s De Neuf did not sleep together.”

“Oh. Well. I—” Wildman says. “That raises more questions than it answers.”

“Gossip is often funny like that,” B’Elanna says.


	13. Chapter 13

Miral had always kept a dream journal. She had been convinced of the potential for prophecy in subconscious visions. B’Elanna had never fully bought into the whole thing. She’d always believed dreams are either one’s asleep brain attempting to process events and stimuli or randomly generated images and scenarios created by neurons firing without direction. Or some amalgamation of both.

But as she’s standing on the Bridge, hunched over the engineering console with Harry, analyzing systems schematics and energy inputs and outputs and discussing possible reasons why the warp field is fluctuating, the ship lurches and jolts, and she can feel the warp core go offline entirely. They’re suddenly and scarily at a dead stop, and Janeway’s yelling at the view screen, but nothing can be seen but stars. A second lurch and jolt, and the Red Alert klaxon starts, and everything’s eerily still and pink, and B’Elanna’s heart is thudding wildly. It’s bad enough to be being attacked by an invisible entity—that’s just a Tuesday in the Delta Quadrant—but it’s worse going into a real Red Alert approximately four hours after having been dreaming of a Red Alert. Chakotay is not flipping through a magazine, at least. Of course, she has no way to verify that as he’s not even present currently, having commanded Gamma shift the night before. But Tom is present, and he’s slumped over his station. He’s not asleep per se—he’s been knocked unconscious. But the tableau is similar enough that it’s got B’Elanna halfway to panicking.

“I—” B’Elanna starts. She’s not sure what she’s about to say. Maybe that she needs to get back to Engineering. Maybe that she needs to get out of here in general. But Janeway’s saying,

“B’Elanna. You’re on helm.” B’Elanna is trying very hard not to hyperventilate already, and being charged with piloting is not helping her regulate her breathing. The third lung comes in handy except for when it’s more trouble than it’s worth, and right now she can feel her fingertips start to tingle at the beginning stages of CO2 imbalance. She breathes intentionally as she walks carefully to the helm, wary of another lurch and wary of her own unsteadiness. She checks Tom’s pulse. It’s slow and strong, and she takes a moment to time her breathing to it, and then, 

“Torres to Sickbay. Emergency transport.”

“I’m sorry, Chief, but we’re experiencing an influx of traffic right now,” Jurot’s voice says. “Is the crewman in question reasonably safe, secure, and stable?”

“He appears to be,” Torres says. There’s a pause with a lot of rushing sounds and static and then Jurot again:

“Um. The Doctor says keep him that way until we can get another couple sets of hands down here.”

“Acknowledged,” B’Elanna says as her mind does a couple cartwheels about what to do with Tom’s limp body so that she can get to the conn. Finally she disengages his chair lock and rolls it a half a meter to her left, bracing his shoulders gently with her hands to keep him in the same position and re-engages the lock.

She stands now at his spot at the controls. Not the best angle, but serviceable. As much as she doesn’t want to be in this situation, it’s better that she’s got a task and some black-and-white readings to look at. It grounds her to be busy and focused. She takes stock of the instruments, gets her bearings.

“Warp’s out of commision, but we’ve got impulse and thrusters,” B’Elanna says.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Tuvok, report,” Janeway says.

“Sensor readings are unclear. It does not appear that we have been targeted by weapons discharge. I am realigning the sensor array to compensate for the signature of the pulses that have affected the warp field,” Tuvok says.

“Seven of Nine to the Bridge,” Seven’s voice says over the comm.

“Go ahead,” Janeway says, but B’Elanna’s thinking that Seven ought not be in astrometrics yet because she’s supposed to be on Beta. Seven ought to be sleeping in and enjoying a luxurious breakfast and then reading something light and stupid, doing some tai chi maybe. But those aren’t things Seven does anyway, probably, so no harm no foul she guesses. What’s that asinine thing her dad had always said? If you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life? Maybe that’s accurate. Weirder things have happened. For example, maybe she really is clairvoyant and prognosticates events in her dreams.

“According to my calculations, we are experiencing solar flares from the V-type star 3.2 lightyears port stern,” Seven’s disembodied voice says.

“Is that what’s taken out our warp drive?” Janeway says.

“Inconclusive,” Seven says.

“Keep me posted. Janeway out. B’Elanna. Let’s put some distance between ourselves and that star. Half impulse starboard bow. But don’t get too fancy with it. We don’t want to anger her further.” B'Elanna almost laughs at that. As if they’re one of those cultures that personifies and reveres volcanoes and always gives them feminine names and tiptoes around their deep, dark female rage, obsequious and accommodating and respectful.

“Yes, ma’am,” B’Elanna says as she positions her hands and focuses on the actions required to do what Janeway’s ordered. Muscle memory is a much better miracle than the occasional prophetic dream—more useful, more pragmatic. A prophetic dream requires interpretation, but muscle memory just exists and does what it’s supposed to do.

She’s a fair pilot, but it takes all her concentration to negotiate speed and course and turbulence from the scattered meteors and other particulates in this stretch of space. She’s completely zoned in to her own view screen and navigational array. She knows whenever this is over and she’s lying in her bed, closing her eyes and hoping for a sleep that won’t come easily or stay long, she’ll see this field of light and darkness behind her lids, dancing and jittering and not-quite-right. And as she thinks that, she realizes that here in real time something’s not quite right in a more visceral, palpable way. As they pull away from the gravity of the star, there are even more particulates to dodge, and the light is shimmering oddly.

There’s another lurch and jolt, and B’Elanna grips the controls, momentarily forgets the difference between pitch, yaw, and roll. But she supposes those are piloting basics for places with atmospheres, anyway, and don’t have much to do with space piloting. But there’s always equal and opposite reactions. She cranks left hard and fast—turn in to the skid, that’s another basic, right?—and initializes thrusters simultaneously. She watches her view screen: Voyager has rotated, turned a complete circle, and now they’re pointed again toward their desired heading again, so B’Elanna shuts down thrusters and powers up impulse engines and floors it. Janeway had requested half impulse, but she’s got to have a little power to get out of this donut, so she’s got it at three-quarters instead.

There’s another lurch, but it’s the kind of lurch like when you’re driving a shitty old car that needs an oil change and the transmission is a little wonky, and you jerk into gear after having been stopped at a traffic light. And just like that shitty old car, Voyager evens out and runs smoothly once she’s warmed up and safely past the intersection. She backs down to half impulse and straightens out. The particulates now that they’re a little farther away are small and pinging off the view screen like sleet or bugs.

“Seven of Nine to the Bridge,” Seven’s voice says.

“Got anything new for me?” Janeway says.

“Yes. I have further analyzed the solar flares and have determined they are, indeed, the source of our current problem.”

“ETA on a solution?” Janeway says.

“I will require assistance from, ideally, you and Lieutenant Torres,” Seven’s voice says.

“Give us a minute to sort the Bridge out, and we’ll be right with you.”

“Acceptable,” Seven’s voice says. B'Elanna does let herself laugh at that. Yes, she and Seven could be friends off duty, but on-duty Seven seems to be just as smug and condescending as ever. Somehow that feels exceptionally right and good to her. It feels ordinary and steady and like something with a lot of tomorrows in it, which is exactly what one wants to cling to in a Red Alert.

“Janeway to Baytart.”

Silence. It stretches out for a few seconds. 

“Captain Janeway to Ensign Culhane.” Janeway’s voice is a little more Starfleet ice than usual. B’Elanna’s not looking at her, but she can tell she’s growing agitated. Janeway’s always more protocol when she’s feeling the heat. Well. It’s a parabola rather than a line. Once she’s too agitated she slides down the curve to feral—all angry whisper and crazy eyes.

Silence again. Has this bullshit taken out all the regular pilots?

“Captain Janeway to Ensign Lang.”

“This is Ensign Deborah Lang. Are you looking for me or for Ensign Timothy Lang?”

“Anybody who answers at this point,” Janeway says.

“Oh. Well. You got me,” Lang says.

“I’m not mistaken that you’ve had pilot training, am I?”

“No ma’am. I’m adequate at piloting.”

“Great. Report to the Bridge.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Lang says.

Janeway’s now standing next to B’Elanna at the conn. She’s pointing at a screen and saying,

“You’ve had an up-close look at this. Any theories yet?”

“I’m not that well-versed in V-class stars, but the particulates I’ve been dodging and the gravitational pull I’ve been fighting are worrisome. I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” B'Elanna says.

“That’s not what I wanted to hear. But I guess if you only ever told me what I wanted to hear I wouldn’t trust you,” Janeway says.

“Captain,” Tuvok says. “The pulses are highly erratic and irradiated. We are far enough away that the next projected pulse should not affect us. However. The pulses cannot be reliably predicted.”

“Of course they can’t!” Janeway says, throwing up her hands in exasperation.

The door swishes open, and Deb Lang rushes in, scurries toward the conn and then skitters to a halt, says,

“Uh. Four pilots? Seems rather excessive…”

“Lieutenant Paris is unconscious and Lieutenant Torres and I are leaving. It’s all you, Ensign,” Janeway says as she claps a hand on Lang’s shoulder and then brushes past her. “Tuvok, you have the Bridge.”

Janeway and B’Elanna leg it to the turbolift.

“Deck Eight, and make it snappy,” Janeway says, clipped and impatient. Her right foot is tapping, and her fingers are drumming against the outsides of her thighs. B’Elanna feels the pressure change as the turbolift begins its descent. But then there’s another lurch and jolt, and the turbolift shudders, and she’s weightless and floating for a second and then slammed into the wall and sliding down it to crumple onto the floor. She looks over to where Janeway had been, and she’s also on the floor, but she doesn’t seem to be an ineffectual heap of confusion and disorientation as B’Elanna is. She looks totally in her right mind and in control of her body and on top of that, blazingly irate.

“I do not have time for this,” Janeway says. She shoots up, says so cuttingly, “Computer. Resume turbolift.”

“Oonuble to comry,” the computer glitchily says.

“Well fuck,” Janeway says. Her voice is low and soft and upset. “Computer. You can’t by any chance diagnose yourself?”

“Oonble cop,” the computer even more glitchily says.

Janeway’s shoulders slump.

“Triple fuck,” Janeway whispers. She looks briefly at B'Elanna, and then her eyes dart around the small space, searching.

“If we can override the—” B’Elanna starts. But Janeway’s obviously already thought about that and is saying,

“Give me a boost?”

The hard press of Janeway’s shins on B’Elanna’s trapezei. Shifting and trembling. Clatter and clamor as a sheet of metal falls. A hiss of electricity, a hiss of expletives. And then. Janeway’s tumbling off B’Elanna’s shoulders, and B’Elanna’s catching her.

B’Elanna’s propped on her knees, and she’s suddenly clutching Janeway close to her in her arms. They’re staring at each other.

“I do not have time for this,” Janeway says again, but it’s more of a sigh this time. It’s a swift, fluid motion that extricates her—there’s no judgment or reprimand in it, just quick efficiency—and she’s pacing the small space of the turbolift. “Janeway to the Bridge.”

Silence. More than commbadge silence, though. It’s the dull, blunt silence of screaming into a void. It’s the deep silence of a forgotten frequency that no longer transmits to anyone who might hear.

“Janeway to Seven of Nine.”

Silence. And it’s the same impotent silence. 

Janeway closes her eyes, and she melts against the wall and slides down until she’s seated. B’Elanna watches her chest rise and fall. B’Elanna watches her take several deep breaths. B’Elanna watches her shoulders tense and then relax. B’Elanna watches her. And then Janeway’s head turns, and dark blue eyes are penetrating her. B’Elanna says,

“I dreamed last night that there was a Red Alert.”

“And I dreamed last night that we were trapped together in a turbolift,” Janeway says.


	14. Chapter 14

With as many calculations and hypotheses and strategies as B’Elanna’s got racing through her brain at all angles, she figures Janeway’s probably got at least twice as many. Or perhaps the same number and then a bunch of other concerns piled on top of them. 

She’d allowed herself a minute or two to just sit in the close quiet and get her mind and body synchronized again. If she overthinks too much when she’s agitated—especially if the agitation has already manifested itself physically—it turns into ineffectual riling up that just ends up in her having worked herself into a lather emotionally that has very little basis in reality and an even more tenuous connection to finding solutions to the problems that had precipitated the agitation. She is far from having perfected being able to stop herself at the right time in order to realign herself and get to a place where she can think about her problems rationally, but she’s much better at it now than she has been in the past. It probably helps that Janeway’s a calming presence to her typically. Sure, this is a very stressful and claustrophobic situation, and she and Janeway had made out the night before and very abruptly parted company without talking about it at all. So reasonably, she shouldn’t be so comfortable just sitting here in the middle of some weirdo star’s weirdo debris field as it might decide to zap them again without warning, with no warp core and no communications and no computer, cycling through increasingly stupider ways to fix any of those issues. But who’s better in a crisis than Janeway? That’s what she’d said to herself as she’d taken a deep breath and shoved away all the nonsense panic to the side and focused on thinking with her brain.

She’s got an itemized list in her mind’s eye now, and she’s got bullet points under each item where she’s listing possibilities. She thinks about her language arts teacher in ninth grade teaching young, ungrateful idiots how to outline an essay. It’s funny how little and how much she remembers from her adolescence—strange, specific snippets and then long stretches of nothing. She’s glad the essay-outlining stuck; it helps her organize and delegate on shifts. And it’s helping her focus now. Well, it had been until she had gotten side tracked thinking about how to think. What’s that called? Metacognition? Anyway, the great thing about outlines is that you don’t have to worry too much about details or transitions, just the meat of it—or even if you don’t have the meat butchered quite yet, you can have the whole cow there—and then you can come back and fill in when you’re ready. 

So her top point is the whole cow: V-Class Star Problem. And it needs to be butchered yet, so the bullet points under it are just capital letters followed by question marks. Her second point is Warp Core Problem, but since there’s not a whole hell of a lot she can do for that currently, that’s pretty much the same. And then she gets to Communications Problem, which might be fixable from her current location, so A is Boost Signal of Commbadge; B is Create Secondary Relay. But since the computer is offline, both of those will be more difficult. So she jumps to her fourth point. If she knew what deck the turbolift had stopped on, she could strategize better. They might just have to chance it and get out the escape hatch and fumble around in the Jefferies tubes until they find a control panel. But. If the turbolifts, comm, and computer are all offline, what other systems are working? Each turbolift is equipped with a small backup environmental generator that isn’t so great about temperature regulation but at least supplies oxygen and gravity pretty reliably. The Jefferies tubes might be sealed or unsealed. The electrical might be off. There’s no way to know.

Kahless, if she’d let herself spiral at the beginning, starting with the Red Alert dream and Janeway’s turbolift dream confession, she’d probably now be at the point of tears about unrequited love and whether they’ll ever be able to recoup any of their lost power to pre-Hirogen levels. Getting the warp core back in any context is pretty hard, but since they’re already depleted, now is going to be very difficult, and they’ll need fresh caches of dilithium and deuterium sooner rather than later. But that’s a tomorrow problem. Today’s problem is that incomplete outline that she’d rather have taken a zero on than turn in as is to Ms. Zebed. Her first Vulcan crush, that ninth grade teacher. 

At first she thinks it’s that remembering being young and stupid and fantasizing about running her tongue along those pointy ears has brought the heat of abashment and maybe a little arousal to her cheeks, but then she looks over, and Janeway’s got beads of sweat on her forehead and nose and is unzipping her jacket. Ah yes, those environmental generators and their flimsy grasp on what constitutes an appropriate temperature. It’s got to be thirty-five degrees Celsius. The last time she’d been stuck in a turbolift, it had been with Harry and Crewman Foster, and that time, the turbolift had decided ten degrees Celsius had been ideal. It could’ve definitely been worse, but they had had to do a fair bit of cuddling there at the end. She had been surprised when Harry hadn’t ended up in love with Crewman Foster afterward. But of course, Sharlene Foster is fun and smart and honest and would definitely say yes to a date if he asked, so not his type. When they’d discussed it later, Harry had asked B’Elanna why she hadn’t fallen in love with Foster, and she’d said Foster isn’t mean enough for her, so not her type, either. But that’s not exactly accurate, just easy and pithy to say. In actuality, she likes a bold woman who’s not always so worried about being nice that she makes herself small. A woman with a little bit of a cunning edge to her, as if she knows exactly how to hurt you but chooses not to unless you’ve wronged her in some heinous way.

She takes off her jacket, too, and as she turns to slither out of an arm, she and Janeway lock eyes unexpectedly. “I am such a fool,” Janeway had said. The words clunk around in B’Elanna’s brain, and she wonders anew about them. Janeway’s explanation had been decidedly lacking, obtuse even. Is she a fool because she had let herself get swept up in a fleeting moment? Because she believes in black-and-white protocols written for other people in more easily defined and, more pressingly, more easily regulated situations? Because she still somehow thinks B’Elanna’s willingness to share herself is some kind of transaction? Because of all of the above? Because option E none of the above—something B’Elanna hasn’t thought of and doesn’t have access to with her current knowledge? Again, she thinks of ninth grade. She’d always hated Ms. Zebed’s multiple choice exams that had always had D and E as all and none, respectively. She’d usually known the answers, but she’d always thought there’d been a trick waiting around the corner—some Vulcan logic riddle—and had second-guessed herself into choosing incorrectly. After the second or third test she’d taken in that class that she’d gotten a C on—passing, respectable, but not up to her personal standards—she’d confronted her, and Ms. Zebed had suggested that her overthinking had been illogical. “It seems illogical to encourage someone to follow what is colloquially called a ‘gut reaction’ or ‘instinct,’” Ms. Zebed had said. “However, instinct is usually knowledge that one has acquired without one’s having noticed.” That hadn’t appeased young B’Elanna, and Ms. Zebed had cocked her head in that infuriating, sexy Vulcan way and then proposed the alternate testing method of timed essays. Young B’Elanna had salvaged her grade with those timed essays because she had mastered the art of the outline.

Janeway swipes her forearm over her sweaty brow. She says,

“I’ve been thinking. Maybe the comm is the easiest fix. If we can get a win under our belts, maybe we’ll be more confident to tackle something bigger and more daunting.” It would take too much exposition to explain about her mental outline and how the communications problem had been the only point with any useful subpoints, so B’Elanna says,

“Good plan. If we dismantle our commbadges and reconfigure the components to boost the subspace signal and—”

“Boost the secondary relay on the intra-ship relay,” Janeway says, finishing her thought and already pawing at her discarded jacket to find her commbadge. She plucks it off the fabric and begins dismantling it. B’Elanna does the same. 

They’re sitting cross-legged facing each other, the discrete parts of their commbadges strewn on the floor between them, and they’re sliding them across the metal strategically like chess pieces. Queen to H5 or whatever. B’Elanna had never had the patience for chess. She likes a good strategy game, but something with fewer moving parts to memorize, more straight math or straight manipulation. Hearts or Monopoly. Both together are overwhelming.

They entwine a few wires into a delicate plait and then place the magnets at opposite ends of that, stack receivers and transmitters and transceivers, do as much recalibration that can be done with only fingernails and other parts of commbadges as tools. B’Elanna feels a change in air pressure as they connect everything just so. Sometimes a pressure change is indicative of an infrasound—a sound so low in pitch that it can’t be heard by human ears. She hopes that’s the case, rather than it just being a vagary of the barometer. If there’s an infrasound, they might be able to adjust their frequency so they can distinguish it and gain meaning from it. They send out an SOS on a loop and wait.

Janeway’s out of her trousers now, too, and B’Elanna stares at the amalgamation of parts they’ve assembled into a shortwave radio and attempts to will it into doing what they want to distract herself from Janeway’s bare, luscious thighs. And as she’s talking herself out of being a reprobate, she’s sweating and sweating and. Well, there’s nothing here to rehydrate her. So she probably ought to strip, too.

“Bridge to Janeway.” It’s crackly and distant and indistinct.

“Go ahead,” Janeway says.

“Tuvok here. We have isolated the dangerous element in the solar flares and restored the warp core. I am confident that we are a safe distance from the V-class star so as not to incur any further negative effects. We have also—” He cuts out in a haze of static and buzzing and then cuts back in: “—unfortunately.”

“Tuvok. I didn’t receive the entire transmission. What is ‘unfortunately’?” Janeway says.

The answer is mostly gobbledygook, but what’s distinguishable is “turbolifts offline” and “computer reinitializing” and “communications intermittent” and “Voyager is provisionally.”

Janeway furiously disconnects and reconnects elements of their modern art sculpture that is a communications relay until there’s the hum of electronic and wireless networking, and she says,

“Tuvok! Are we out of the woods or what?”

“I believe so, Captain. It will take some time to restore all affected systems, however. Do not be alarmed if you are contained in your current location for several hours.”

“You can’t be serious,” Janeway says.

“When have you known me not to be serious?” Tuvok says. Janeway groans, says,

“Fine. Hail me at this frequency when you deem it prudent.” And she disconnects the transmitter and lies flat on the turbolift floor, groans again.

“I guess they solved it without us,” B’Elanna says. 

As much as she has every faith in her fellow crew members, she’s also a little disconcerted that everything’s been tied up in a neat bow without the input of her and Janeway. What if Chakotay had taken command after the Caretaker’s array and chosen Carey as his chief engineer? Surely, they wouldn’t have been at this exact spot at this exact moment and experiencing these exact things. Too many variables to even begin to think about. But still. She’d been under the impression that she and the Captain had been essential components to the ship’s functioning. But maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re important but interchangeable. They’re factory models, but when they’re spent, they can be swapped out for after-market reproductions. Or. Their roles, duties, and specialties can be replicated. “I do not have time for this,” Janeway had said. B’Elanna does not have time for this, either. In point of fact, she does have time for this, but she doesn’t want time for this.

“What a relief,” Janeway says. “It’s kind of nice to be an also-ran.”

“It does take the pressure off being a photo-finisher,” B’Elanna says.

Janeway turns her head toward B’Elanna and looks up at her. And then she places her fingertips at the middle of B’Elanna’s naked shin and skims up her tibia, a ghost of a touch, as she says,

“You ever think about whether it’s harder being the racehorse or the jockey?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write two whole chapters of kinda real sci-fi just to get these two stuck in a turbolift under safe enough conditions to really talk to each other and maybe kiss a little? Why yes, in fact, I did.


	15. Chapter 15

Funnel introduction. The phrase pops into B’Elanna’s brain, maybe because she’d already been thinking about Ms. Zebed or maybe because it’s one of those phrases that gets stuck in her head all the time for no discernible reason. Regardless. Once the outline is complete, and the essay is ready to be written, there is the matter of the introduction, which, in this ideally structured paradigm, begins with a broad, universal statement and then becomes more specific by increments as the sentences roll by until it gets to the narrowest point—the thesis statement with its main ideas to be explained in their own individual paragraphs, as per the outline. 

Of course, B’Elanna’s outline that she’s been devoting her concentrated mental energy to is obsolete now because their topic has changed, but she clings to the principle as she attempts to ignore the goosebumps and hot chill Janeway’s fingertips have caused. 

She wills herself out of her lust haze and begins with her broad, universal statement:

“Horse racing was banned at least a century ago, so I don’t have a lot of first-hand knowledge of it.” In her periphery she can see that Janeway is looking at her with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, obviously waiting for where she’s going with this. B’Elanna focuses her eyes on a fingerprint smudge on the haptic pad to the left of the turbolift door instead of looking at Janeway as she travels further down the funnel: “But my quantum chemistry lab partner at the Academy was really into historical reenactment related to old-timey gambling. Her specialty was Mississippi riverboats of the 1800s, and one of her characters that she would portray—at the living history museum on a little section of San Francisco Bay that had been sectioned off and turned into a reproduction of Baton Rouge circa 1890 via a grant from the Federation Historical Society—was a charming conwoman card sharp, adept at faro and poker as well as sleight-of-hand ‘magic,’ who also occasionally played the ponies.” 

She can feel Janeway watching her as she speaks, and she finally looks over to see if her suspicion about what kind of expression is on her face is correct. Janeway has slithered up into a half-sitting position with her elbows propped up behind her, and she’s looking at B’Elanna, either amused or bemused as far as B’Elanna can tell. Yes, that’s exactly how B’Elanna had figured Janeway would appear—a disconcertingly sexy juxtaposition of tight muscles and languid posture, ready at any moment to spring to action or to melt into inaction. Janeway’s a tactician and a trickster and a good liar, but she’s also a hedonist and an empath and a masochist and a good listener. B’Elanna can predict many of her movements, but she has trouble deciphering the specific impetus behind an action as there are too many motivations to pick from. 

Just now, there’s also an avidness there in Janeway’s face that she hadn’t anticipated—a seemingly real interest which could be actually real or could be that innate charisma Janeway has that compels people to confide in her.

“I bet her outfits for that were magnificent,” Janeway says.

“See footnotes for costume details,” B’Elanna says, retreating into the safe outline-oriented place in her own head. She’d always been drawn to Chicago style with its abundant and enlightening footnotes, but Ms. Zebed had been MLA or death. She’d respected Ms. Zebed immensely and agreed with her on many things, but she had never seen the logic in an annotated bibliographical addendum. Janeway looks at her quizzically, and B’Elanna says, “I’m trying to adhere to a line of thought. Outfits are an unnecessary distraction.”

Janeway rolls her eyes, but then she rolls her shoulders and says,

“Noted. Proceed.” B’Elanna pauses to regain the thread, to tear her eyes away from those jutting, naked collarbones and slip back into the safe place in the safe introduction funnel. She says,

“I spent a lot of time in my quantum chemistry lab partner’s dorm room working through problem sets and polishing up lab reports, and she’d always have something on the holoimager for white noise, and a lot of times it would be grainy, illegally converted holo versions of old videos of the World Series of Poker or the Kentucky Derby. I was too in love with her to ask her to just play some music instead, and so I often found myself getting distracted and paying too much attention to what was on in the background, and therefore I picked up some of the basics. So. To answer your question. From what I know about horse racing from those encounters and what I’ve learned about horses as a species from subsequent reading about domesticated Earth animals in pursuit of my own interest on the topic, I think I could make a case that it’s equally difficult to be a horse or a jockey.”

Janeway laughs, in that way in which she throws her head back involuntarily, elongating her gorgeous pale sinewy neck. She says,

“You’ve got a whole dissertation prepared, and here I was just trying to flirt with you.”

B’Elanna feels a searing burst of rage in her chest. This wishy-washy entitled Starfleet petaQ. If she had a slip of latinum for every time Janeway had flirted with her and another strip of latinum for every time Janeway had pushed her away, she’d be the Grand Nagus of Ferenginar by now. She’s angry, and she’s tired, and she’s too overheated to be either diplomatic or aggressive as she says,

“I understand practicing and honing your craft. It’s a necessary evil of mastering a skill. But at some point, isn’t beating the same dog tiresome rather than a cheap thrill?”

She looks over and catches Janeway’s gaze, then.

“Oh,” Janeway says. They’re looking at each other so intensely, Janeway’s eyes glittering and shimmering in a way that only an Earth girl’s eyes can, simultaneously present and distant and guilty and innocent. Then Janeway averts her gaze, says again, “Oh.” And it’s so soft and self-deprecating. “You’re not just practice for me, B’Elanna. I’ve meant every syllable.”

“Words are easy. They can be so easily organized. Typed out or deleted accordingly,” B’Elanna says. “Have you meant it every time you’ve touched me?” Janeway is so tactile and so effusive in her tactility, and B’Elanna really had been referring to all the brushing of forearms and claps on shoulders and squeezing of hands and patting of knees—all those things Janeway does to everyone but always mean so much to B’Elanna, and she has to stop herself from extrapolating and asking about the veracity of Janeway’s letting her touch her in the same types of ways or the even worse veracity of any Hirogen holodeck bullshit in which a version of Janeway had touched and allowed herself to be touched by someone else in a lot of different ways.

“You really have to ask?” Janeway says.

“Yes. I need a straight answer,” B’Elanna says.

“It’s not that I want to touch you. It’s that I need to. Is that a straight enough answer?”

“No,” B'Elanna says. “I’m very stupid, and I need the most explicit and non-negotiable answer.”

“What if I’m even stupider and the best I can offer is a provisional ‘yes’ that is contingent upon a lot of different factors that all have nothing to do with how strongly I feel about you?” Janeway says.


	16. Chapter 16

The temperature has been fluctuating in the turbolift, but between 32 and 38 Celsius, all hot and horrible with no reprieve, the humidity rising as both Janeway and B’Elanna continue to sweat.

Janeway’s leaning back on her elbows, and B’Elanna’s sitting against the wall, and they’re both refusing to speak or move, no matter how uncomfortable the silence or their respective positions are. Or perhaps that’s just how B’Elanna’s perceiving it. Maybe that’s what she’s doing, and Janeway’s actually plenty comfortable in the silence and that pose that’s got to be straining her shoulders and chafing her elbows.

B’Elanna’s body runs hot naturally, not as hot as a full Klingon, of course, but still she’s better suited to the environment than Janeway is, and so she’s watching Janeway with concern. At least that’s what she’s telling herself: she’s looking at her and cataloguing her heart rate and engorgement of capillaries not because she finds this activity compelling on its own but because she’s worried Janeway might soon suffer from heat exhaustion. She’s not watching a certain bead of sweat roll down Janeway’s chest because she wants to lap at it and chase it and beat it to its gravitationally inevitable destination at Janeway’s diaphragm because she wants to taste her skin. She’s watching that certain bead of sweat because she has actual medical concerns about Janeway’s physiology. At least that’s what she’s telling herself.

And B’Elanna’s not taking up their previous conversation because they’re both too depleted to adequately address it and also there’s nothing else to be said. Janeway may or may not want her for real, but there’s too much interference for it to come to fruition so what’s the point, and anyway, stuck-in-a-turbolift confessions are less reliable than mood rings or magic eight balls or newspaper astrological predictions. One can always find an interpretation that seems to match one’s lived experience if one is committed to looking for an answer in nonsense pseudoscience.

B’Elanna tilts her head and the back of it meets the wall. She opens her eyes to look at the metal ceiling of the turbolift and her eyes drift to where Janeway had, propped on her shoulders, removed a panel and come away from it empty-handed and no closer to a solution or even any kind of truth. She closes her eyes again. An outline is useful only if a logical, linear explication of ideas is the desired outcome. Sometimes the desired outcome is bullshitting for bullshitting’s sake—an exchange of ideas that doesn’t lead to a conclusion at all, just more possibilities and more possibilities branching off those possibilities ad infinitum. 

It’s hot and humid and silent and then,

“It’s got to be worse for the horse,” Janeway says.

“What?” B’Elanna says automatically, not really listening, not really connecting this thing Janeway’s said to anything that’s been previously discussed. Janeway continues,

“Horses are prey animals. They don’t run for fun. They run because of their flight or fight response, and because of their physical capabilities and limitations, they run when confronted with a predator. In ideal conditions, they stand around and graze, like any herd animal. Their natural condition is hanging out in a group, eating and milling around. So a race must be a stressful situation with an artificial stimulus to activate that flight response.”

“A racehorse knows it’s not in danger,” B’Elanna says. “Horses are smart. They know they’re not being chased by a predator when they’re on an oval track with a rose garland in their future. Jockeys, on the other hand, are slaves to capitalism. If they don’t win, they don’t eat. Even the slowest horse gets a trough of grain.”

“Well, yes, but a horse is just a horse. A jockey is a person who chose that profession,” Janeway says.

“Sometimes when you’re small but have abnormally strong thighs, you make bad life choices about how to use that to your advantage,” B’Elanna says.

“Is that right?” Janeway says, and even without looking she can tell Janeway is peering at her quizzically.

“Don’t get me wrong. I could never have been a jockey. I’m too heavy with all my redundant organs and dense bones. But you…” B’Elanna says.

They’re still not looking at each other. B’Elanna’s eyes are fixed on the hole created when Janeway had removed the panel. She can’t allow herself a good look at Janeway because if Janeway’s looking back, she’ll be caught staring at errant beads of sweat in enticing locations, but maybe Janeway’s not looking anymore—maybe she’s looking at her own nailbeds, as she is often wont to do when trying to appear casual.

“I suppose it’s neither here nor there, considering that horse racing has been illegal for at least a century. But I will concede that I am rather small and my thighs are rather strong, but I wouldn’t know the first thing about getting into that field. Was there a trade school? Did you get recruited from, say, a polo league?” Janeway says.

“I’d guess it was who you knew rather than what you knew. That’s how most things worked back then, right?” B’Elanna says. Janeway laughs, says,

“That’s how most things work now.” B’Elanna hums her agreement, and Janeway says, “Even so, doesn’t seem like a very fulfilling gig to me. Riding around in circles being jostled about. Probably having to be on some insane ballerina diet to make weight. I’d much rather be a riverboat gambler.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“Much better suited to your skill set.”

“You’ve never seen me ride a horse.” And B’Elanna does not want to. If they’re going to go on platonically and set aside their attraction, she’d like to stay away from any suggestive images like that. She clears her throat, says,

“I’m sure you’re quite the equestrian. But it’d be too boring for you. Maybe the off-track bookie scene and thoroughbred politics could hold your interest, but you’d like bluffing your way through high-stakes games and flirting with everybody at the table with a little ivory-handled pistol in your pocket just in case things got dicey much better.”

“Ha! I would, wouldn’t I?”

“Maybe when we get home, we should go see if that living history museum is still around,” B’Elanna finds herself saying. Maybe it’s the heat making her sentimental and reckless. Or maybe it’s the heat reminding her that that grant had afforded them to put Nouveau Vieil Baton Rouge in a bio bubble to replicate the swampiness of the climate, for an even more authentic experience.

“That sounds like fun. Did you go there often? With your lab partner you were in love with?” Janeway’s voice has a soft, sympathetic timbre to it as if she already knows the answer. B’Elanna looks over then, and Janeway is sitting up against the wall now, her face the same soft sympathetic way her voice is, although flushed and sweaty. B’Elanna turns away again and focuses her eyes on her discarded boots, which could use a polish.

“Only a few times. They played real poker, but the hands were always rigged in favor of whoever was supposed to be the hero or occasionally the villain if there was a bigger game scheduled later, for drama. And because she portrayed the femme fatale, she never got to win, and I knew damn good and well she was smarter than the rest of them, so I got frustrated with the whole thing. She didn’t seem to mind, but it wasn’t that fun for me after I figured that out.”

“So why would you want to take me there?” Janeway says.

“The whole thing is really very architecturally beautiful, and I think you would appreciate that. And they always had really good Cajun food.”

“Not a lot that’s better than an elegant paddle wheel and a good gumbo,” Janeway says. B’Elanna can think of plenty of things that are better—including but not limited to having Janeway settled on her thighs, writhing and moaning as she caresses her naked torso and skims the tip of her tongue along the roof of her mouth. But she’s not thinking about that. That’s a no.

“I prefer an oak bandstand with highly polished brass railings and a shrimp bake, myself,” B’Elanna says. Janeway laughs, says,

“And what about the human element? I can’t really see you as a jockey or a riverboat gambler.”

“I guess I hadn’t really given it much thought. All the historical pretending isn’t really my deal.” But before B’Elanna’s even got the whole sentiment out, Janeway’s saying,

“Stagecoach driver.”

“What?”

“Old West stagecoach driver. Requires a lot of strength and quick reflexes. Fights off bandits. Comes up with creative solutions to problems. Seduces a lot of farmers’ daughters. I think it’s a perfect fit. If you were into historical pretending, that is.”

“Maybe I just haven’t found the right historical pretending,” B’Elanna says.

“Maybe so.” There’s a pause. “I do wonder. What do you do for fun? Other than hammer curls and Whitman and Shostakovich. And taking too many shifts in Engineering, of course.”

“That’s about the extent of it. But what else is there other than engineering, exercise, literature, and music?”

“True. But… you don’t have some stupid guilty pleasure that’s just for fun rather than edification?”

“I’ve already told you that I read a lot of shitty Klingon romance. What more do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything more from you. I’m just curious.” B’Elanna looks over again, and Janeway’s got her contemplative face on—no artifice, only honest desire for connection, and that makes B’Elanna shiver with a hot chill even more than her unwanted memory of Janeway’s weight on her lap. And suddenly she’s mad. The anger burns in her fingertips and in her chest, and somehow it seems to cool the rest of her body, or perhaps the heat of her rage is so much hotter that it makes everything else seem cool in comparison. How dare Janeway say such a thing with a straight face, use such weighted language and claim neutrality. She pinches her thigh, bites her tongue, tries to get herself in check, but it only half works. She says,

“Your curiosity tends to get you into a lot of pickles. Maybe you ought to cut your losses and lay off this time.” Janeway’s slippery palm is on B’Elanna’s forearm.

“And if I don’t?”

B’Elanna laughs, but it’s a mean little laugh, and she says,

“Don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to.”

Janeway’s grip tightens on B’Elanna’s forearm, and she says,

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll give you three guesses.”

They look at each other, and there’s anger on both sides. B’Elanna’s even angrier at seeing that. What’s Janeway got to be mad about in this situation? What? She’s angry that B’Elanna’s not in the mood to indulge her bullshit? She’s angry that B’Elanna doesn’t want to lay herself bare in exchange for a pat on the head and a quick dismissal?

“Forgive me for trying to make conversation and for taking an interest in your life,” Janeway says as she pulls her hand away. B’Elanna catches her wrist and squeezes, forces eye contact, says,

“You tell yourself such pretty lies. I’m almost jealous.” Janeway’s other hand grabs B’Elanna’s shoulder, and her fingernails are digging into her trapezius. Janeway says,

“Why? Because the lies you choose to tell yourself are ugly? Seems to me that lies are lies.”

“Aren’t they just?” B’Elanna says and then she surges forward, and if she didn’t know better she’d swear that Janeway had been expecting the kiss, had been anticipating it and preparing for it and excited by the prospect of it, because her mouth is half open and supple and responsive as B’Elanna presses her lips and tongue and teeth to Janeway’s lips and tongue and teeth. 

Janeway’s nails dig farther in, breaking skin, and B’Elanna moans into Janeway’s mouth. She releases her wrist, but only so that she can reach around and press her fingertips against Janeway’s spinal column and pull their bodies closer.

They’re kissing and clawing at each other, desperate and wanting. Soon, B’Elanna’s laid out on top of Janeway, a hand creeping up under gray undershirt, grazing at the underside of a breast. Janeway pants and kisses B’Elanna more fiercely, then jerks away so that she can strip off her undershirt, unlatch her bra. She kisses B’Elanna again and guides her hand to her newly exposed breast. And then she traces her fingers from the center of B’Elanna’s breastbone down in a long, straight line to her bellybutton and then down still. Janeway’s fingers slip underneath the elastic of B’Elanna’s underwear’s waistband. B’Elanna groans, and Janeway’s fingers descend again.

“Tuvok to Captain Janeway.” It’s crackly but distinct, and they both freeze.


	17. Chapter 17

“You really don’t have to be here,” Carey says. “Your shift is technically very over.”

They’re in the warp core injector access port, which is slightly larger than but at least as hot as that turbolift had been, and B’Elanna is not trying to think about that right now. If she’s working, she’s thinking about work, and that's how she’d like to play it for at least another day or so until she has time (and the ship has the power reserves) to take a long shower and lay out some kind of tentative strategy for what in the hell she’s going to do about all these unplanned and unfortunately truncated heavy petting sessions she keeps stumbling into. 

It seems like the type of thing that’s a tad dangerous and has a lot of its own momentum, like nuclear fission, as if once it’s started it won’t stop until all the nuclei are wrung out and bare neutrons. Not a lot to do about it but to point it in the right direction and wait, but it’s hard for her to see right now what that right direction might be—clean energy? Or fucking up the New Mexico desert? She’s not sure what correlates to what, and anyway she’s not in the shower where she can let her muscles relax and really think about it clearly and logically. Ms. Zebed had always encouraged her use of colorful metaphors.

B’Elanna cuts Carey a sharp glance, and he shuts up. But Nicoletti, of course, does not. She can save a situation with an asshole comment, or she can just as skillfully and purposely exacerbate a situation with an asshole comment, and B’Elanna’s got half a mind to think Nicoletti enjoys both equally.

“I mean, geez, Chief. You got up at what? Four am? Spent most of the day trapped in a confined space, sitting around feeling useless—which you hate and makes you crazy—probably playing the worst game of Never Have I Ever with the Captain to kill the time, and now you’ve been hunched over the same injector port for the last five hours. If you feel even half as rode hard and put away wet as you look, you need to get out of here immediately.”

“And what are you gonna do about it? Call a security team down here to escort me to my quarters? Get the Doctor to declare me unfit for duty?” B’Elanna says.

“Well, no,” Nicoletti says, looking almost contrite, but then her face lights up with dickish amusement. “But I might call your lady friend down here to talk some sense into you. And maybe then… escort you to your quarters,” she finishes with a waggle of her eyebrows.

B’Elanna feels her cheeks and ears and chest burn with embarrassment. Sure, Nicoletti had witnessed Janeway’s flirting with her when they had all been working together on the holo emitter, but that had been what seems like a million years ago, and it had been so tame. Surely Nicoletti can’t know what all’s gone on since then—unless somebody at the gym had made an educated guess about what they would be up to after having been seen basically holding hands on that bench and then leaving together. But who would’ve told Nicoletti? Tuvok, Ayala, and Lang are fundamentally not gossipers. Tal and Nicoletti haven’t spoken since they had drunkenly hooked up after a Chinese New Year party like a year ago, and Megan Delaney (she’s the more reserved and loyal twin) hasn’t spoken to Nicoletti since then in science-division solidarity with Tal. So surely, Nicoletti’s just picked up on her crush—is it a crush exactly? it’s probably a little more than a crush considering she’s fondled topless Janeway twice now—and is teasing her in that rakish, irreverent way she has where she doesn’t care so much about the truthfulness of the accusation or the reason for the reaction to it as much as the reaction it engenders itself. 

“Sue,” Carey says in his disappointed dad voice that he’s so good at that usually makes B’Elanna’s insides melt a little at the care and tenderness and paternal love in it. “I don’t think they want to disclose their relationship yet, and it’s kinda rude to rub it in B’Elanna’s face.” 

QI'yaH! Does just everybody know about this? How?

“But you do agree our intrepid Engineering leader needs some rest,” Nicoletti says. “And sometimes the ends justify the means.”

“I’m not going to be a part of it,” Carey says. “I’ll be working on the nacelles if anybody needs me.” He gives B’Elanna a sympathetic look and exits.

“I’ve got another two good hours in me,” B’Elanna says. “You can set me a timer.”

“If you’re negotiating, you’re already past your expiration date,” Nicoletti says. And she does have a fair point. If B’Elanna had been fresh and lucid, she’d have ordered her to—she can’t even think of anything menial that would also be essential. She should just capitulate. But before she can do so, Nicoletti’s tapping her commbadge: “Lieutenant Nicoletti to Seven of Nine.”

B’Elanna is confused at first, but then it’s a flood: Nicoletti’s ribbing her about being into blondes these days, Wildman’s compassion and misconception. Well. That’s a relief. Of sorts. For now. It’ll need to be addressed and cleared up eventually, but she figures Seven won’t mind being her beard for a while as she gets things sorted out. And she honestly could use a nice walk-and-talk with her just about now.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Seven’s voice says. 

“Are you busy?” Nicoletti says.

“Yes,” Seven’s voice says.

“Sorry. Wrong question. Are the activities you are currently performing absolutely integral to the ship's functioning?”

“No,” Seven’s voice says.

“How fortuitous. I am with Lieutenant Torres in the warp core injector access port, and she is obviously exhausted but refuses to leave. If it’s not too much trouble, I thought maybe you could come down here and retrieve her.”

“Lieutenant Torres’s functioning at her peak efficiency is a higher priority than the communications specifications I am currently engaged in calibrating both because she is Chief Engineer and because I am not on duty and have not been officially assigned this task. I will comply.”

Nicoletti smirks, says,

“I wish you’d gotten yourself a ball and chain sooner. Great leverage to force you to take care of yourself.”

B’Elanna rolls her eyes. She busies herself packing up her toolkit so she doesn’t have to look too much at smug Nicoletti, and in a few minutes, Seven is standing at the doorway in her rigid Borg stance with her hands clasped behind her back, saying,

“B’Elanna Torres. When did you last consume a nutritional supplement?”

“I had a big breakfast,” B’Elanna says. It’s the real answer, but the way she’s said it leans into the ball-and-chain dynamic, and she feels a little guilty about using Seven to deflect suspicion.

“Unacceptable,” Seven says. She picks up B’Elanna’s toolbox and turns to go, but then she says to Nicoletti, “Thank you for alerting me, Lieutenant.” Nicoletti grins and gives her a thumbs up.

When the tools are checked in to B’Elanna’s locker and they’re in the turbolift headed for Deck 2, Seven breaks their silence:

“I apologize if you don’t agree and are not amenable to the arrangement, but since I have been informed that a statistically significant percentage of the crew believe we are in an intimate relationship because of how we presented ourselves at the Hirogen meeting, I concluded it would be prudent to act as though this erroneous conclusion were true in order to conceal your feelings for the Captain as well as to conceal my own confusing feelings.” B’Elanna laughs. As much as she had figured Seven wouldn’t mind being her beard, she hadn’t anticipated that the idea would come to Seven independently.

“I do agree, actually. And thank you. You gave an impressive performance. A few weeks of pretending to be my girlfriend, and you’ll be ready for Lady Macbeth.”

They’re entering the mess hall now, and Seven pauses just inside the doors, cocks her head. It’s her supremely confused pre-laugh face, but she doesn’t laugh. She says,

“Lady Macbeth. Shakespeare. ‘To bed, to bed, to bed.’”

“baQa’! Not you, too! I’m way too keyed up to sleep.”

“I was not suggesting that. I was acknowledging that I understood your literary reference. However. I am intrigued by your current state. All biometric readings indicate your body is in need of regeneration, yet your neural pathways are hyperactive. I believe you are, indeed, ‘too keyed up to sleep.’ A balanced meal, some light exercise, and a conversation with a non-threatening individual will aid you in the relaxation necessary for productive short-term hibernation.”

“Oh. In that case,” B’Elanna says.

Two to-go Nutritional Supplement M-3s later, and they’re ambling along Deck 2.

“I suspect you want a full report on what occurred while you were unable to—” Seven starts.

“Nope. I can guess about all that. And even if I couldn’t, it makes me feel bad to know I wasn’t able to be involved,” B’Elanna says.

“I see.” Seven takes a long draw at her nutritional supplement and then, “That’s understandable. But also there is the matter of what we have discussed regarding the Hirogen occupation. External circumstances have precluded our previously scheduled appointment during which you implied you would disclose why you were late to our last appointment.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” B’Elanna says.

“You are withholding information from me,” Seven says.

“Only because I don’t know how to tell you.”

“Make a good-faith attempt.”


	18. Chapter 18

Seven has halted near the entrance to the transporter room on Deck 4. She’d charitably agreed to skip Deck 3 without an immediate explanation as to why, and then she’d listened to B’Elanna’s narrative, which had implicitly explained well enough. Now that they’ve stopped walking and talking, Seven’s got her head cocked and a little color in her cheeks. B’Elanna can’t tell whether she’s angry or embarrassed about the content of the conversation. But she can tell that whatever Seven’s about to say is going to be a firecracker, so she says,

“Let’s take this down to escape pod access. No prying ears down there.”

Seven nods and accompanies her farther down the corridor, her face still intense and unreadable. B’Elanna props herself up on a hatch and waits for Seven to settle into one of her trademark Borg stances, but she doesn’t. She also props herself up on an adjacent hatch and says,

“I would say that you should have waited and been more strategic for more favorable and complete results, but perhaps the Captain responds more naturally and honestly to impulsivity and high-stress situations.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“Now all I’ve got to do to get to third base is crash a shuttlepod.” Seven stares at her, and she does not want to have to explain both baseball and crass, juvenile sexual metaphors. Seven says,

“It is my understanding that ‘second base’ is mammary groping, either over or under clothing. Have you neglected this ‘base’ for comedic effect?” B’Elanna’s face goes hot.

“No, I definitely got to that base. I just didn’t give you all the physical details because I thought it might be weird for us.”

“I don’t expect or want you to disclose more information than you are comfortable with, but if you are willing, I would be interested in that sort of detail.” Seven pauses, and her color is up again, and she’s not meeting B’Elanna’s gaze. She appears to be sorting through her mental catalogue. She takes a drink of her nutritional supplement, and B’Elanna does the same, watching her and wondering what’s going on in her brain. Finally, Seven resumes: “The Borg deemed copulation irrelevant except as necessary background information for many species’ evolutionary processes, so only the barest technical definitions remain in my cortical node. Anne de Neuf’s personal history was not clearly delineated in the memory supplied by the neural inhibitor, as you probably also experienced with Brigitte’s character. And the relationship with Katrine… I do not believe it was typical. For example, Katrine never disrobed fully during their encounters. Kissing occurred but only occasionally. Any fondling was brief. Anne enjoyed their time together, but she was prone to self-loathing, as was Katrine. When I remember these interactions, it is with deep unease that two people would be attracted to each other so intensely and never want to touch each other gently or tenderly. Especially when one of the people involved had the same face and body and hands as the Captain, who on my very first day separated from the Collective was able to calm me by hugging me. She was restraining me from harming anyone, but I could feel her care and concern. Katrine and Anne only ever shared either heat or cold, never plain affection not colored by arousal or hatred. I know that non-sexual touch is very pleasant and can express many emotions better than words. Therefore, there must also be more pleasant ways to engage in sexual acts, and I would like to know about them. Of course, I have many sources at my disposal in the database, but didn’t you yourself say that ‘dishing about sex usually brings people together?’” Seven quirks a brow, and B’Elanna knows she’s quoted her to lighten the mood. She says,

“How many Bolian margaritas had I had when I said that?”

“One.”

“I wonder how Bolian tequila might taste in this concoction?” B’Elanna says, giving her nutritional supplement a little shake. The flavor and texture are as palatable as Seven had described—kind of off-brand mango in flavor and off-off-brand custard in texture. A little Bolian tequila and it could be actually fun to drink rather than just not hard to drink.

“I have never had Bolian tequila,” Seven says. “But there is typically truth in the phrase, ‘you never know until you try.’”

“You are just batting a thousand at cliches tonight, Seven. I like it.” She hops off the hatch and claps Seven on the shoulder, says, “Come on. I’ve got a bottle under my mattress for emergencies.”

“Does this count as an emergency?”

“Any old thing is an emergency to somebody.” B’Elanna laughs as a memory suddenly bubbles up. “You know, my grandmother—my human grandmother—used to say something like that but opposite. I’d go over to her house, and it’d just be like a Thursday afternoon, and she’d turn on the Christmas lights that were perpetually strung up in her breakfast nook, and we’d bake a cake together, and she’d broil us up two medium rare t-bones, and she’d say, ‘Every day’s a holiday to somebody.’”

“Statistically you are both correct.”

They’re in the turbolift now, headed to Deck 9.

“Well yeah. But it’s the spirit of it. The grabbing the targ by the tusks of it. If you can’t enjoy life in the mundane moments, what’s the point?”

“Ah. I see. This is existential philosophy in the guise of ‘bullshitting to bullshit.’” Seven pauses, looks at B’Elanna contemplatively. “If you are already on this particular train of thought sober, I must wonder how alcohol will affect your further explication of the topic. Mind-altering substances were another thing the Borg deemed irrelevant except as background information, so my knowledge of them is incomplete, but I am intrigued by them, especially alcohol in particular and how it is portrayed in Earth literature as a catalyst for the augmentation of certain personality traits and the subduing of other personality traits. I was not compelled by the idea when I attended Neelix’s Labor Day party, so I did not collect relevant data. At that time, I was focusing on social cues for entering and exiting conversations in groups comprised of between three and eight individuals. The next holiday gathering is 2.4 weeks away, and I had resigned myself to having to wait until then to do a thorough study. But now that you’ve offered, I’m eager to conduct research that I have been unable to before because other matters have taken precedent.” 

They exit onto Deck 9, and B’Elanna is laughing and then saying,

“That’s a roundabout way of asking if I’m a mean drunk,” B’Elanna says. Seven opens her mouth, but B’Elanna cuts her off, says, “The funny thing is, I’ve been wondering lately what kind of drunk you might be. So I guess both of us are always running experiments.”

“We are both scientists, after all,” Seven says. 

The door to B’Elanna’s quarters swishes open, and they enter. Seven hovers near the divan as B’Elanna crosses to her bedroom to retrieve the bottle. When she reemerges, Seven is sitting stiffly holding her nutritional supplement with both hands and balancing it between her knees. B’Elanna sloshes about two shots into Seven’s to-go cup and about four into her own, swizzles her straw around and then taps at the bottom so she can take a gulp right after she says,

“May your blood scream.”

She glugs three mouthfuls and feels tears welling in her eyes and then looks at Seven, who has watched and imitated. Seven sets the cup down on B’Elanna’s ottoman and then leans back, sinking into the divan.

“I am not sure what exact parts of my body are screaming, so I cannot assure you that my blood is one of them. However, the percentage of body parts screaming means the odds are in your favor,” Seven says. B’Elanna slumps next to her on the divan, says,

“Don’t get too caught up on the toast. I’m just waiting until you want to arm wrestle.” Seven’s head lolls to the side so that they can make eye contact, and Seven says,

“And why would I want to do that? My Borg-enhanced musculature and your Klingon physique are equally matched theoretically, but you spend much of your free time sculpting and honing yourself in the gym. I do not usually initiate competitions I know I have a strong chance of losing unless I am competing with either of the Wildmans because my distaste for losing in those cases is outweighed by my enjoyment of their company—although I enjoy their company individually for different reasons.”

Well. There goes that theory. If Seven’s not a competitive, aggressive drunk, what is she? There’s a limited window here for B’Elanna to postulate a new hypothesis to herself before it’s made manifest and her conjectures will be moot and the game will be over. Maybe a relaxed, transcendent drunk, the kind that you can tell all of your sins to and they hear you and accept you and absolve you? Seven’s already taking another long pull from her spiked nutritional supplement.

“Fair enough,” B’Elanna says. And before she can think of something else to say, perhaps about Samantha Wildman, there’s a tell-tale chirp, and then,

“Janeway to Torres.” She and Seven look at each other, and Seven raises her eyebrows. It’s an invitation to proceed. B’Elanna taps her commbadge, says,

“Yes, Captain?” 

“A few hours alone with me and you’re ready to jettison yourself into the unknown in an escape pod?” Janeway’s voice says. It’s hard to read the shades of meaning over the comm signal, but she’s pretty obviously trying too hard to be light. B’Elanna and Seven look at each other again. Seven takes up a PADD from the ottoman and starts typing on it. B’Elanna says,

“I left escape pod access ten minutes ago. It took you that long between asking the computer for my location and hailing me to come up with a pick up line?” Seven slides the PADD over onto B’Elanna’s lap and quickly exits. It reads, “We will have to resume our alcohol experiment at a later date. We will meet in the mess hall tomorrow evening, and I will expect a full report.” This Borg petaQ expecting intrigue!

“Haven’t I already admitted to you that I’m very stupid?” Janeway’s voice says.

“Why don’t I come to your quarters, and you can prove it?” B’Elanna says, a response so quick and intuitive. Maybe that Borg petaQ’s instinct for intrigue had been better than she had given her credit for.

“I’ve already programmed the unlock to your biosign.”


	19. Chapter 19

That mini fridge needs a good clean out. When had Neelix even made that half-decent yakisoba that B’Elanna had edged aside gingerly so that her spiked nutritional supplement could fit in between the to-go container of it and the jar of garlic kosher dill spears? But that’s neither here nor there. It’s just easier to think about the logistics of day-to-day living as she’s waiting for the turbolift to take her to Deck 3 instead of thinking about where she’s going and why. The closer she gets, the more the alcohol buzzes in her blood, and it’s about halfway to screaming that this is a bad idea. And that’s certainly something—because usually drunk B’Elanna has very poor impulse control and isn’t too bothered about consequences, so if feeling-it-a-little B’Elanna is apprehensive, there’s a good chance there’s actually something to be apprehensive about. This is potentially the kind of thing where she’s going to get there, and it’s going to be some long, excruciating discussion followed by a brush off. Or an “I don’t know what I was thinking; please forget I called and leave.” Or maybe some quick and dirty physicality and then a lot of guilty “we shouldn’t haves” or more “I’m a fools” or, best case, no talking and sneaking out in the middle of the night. There are a lot of ways this could go, and B’Elanna’s not looking forward to any of them. Why had she allowed herself to get caught up in Seven’s romantic nonsense and the thrill of flirting openly over the comms?

She pauses at Janeway’s door and considers turning around without ringing the chime, but Janeway hadn’t been lying about reprogramming the door, and it swishes open. So she’s standing there in the hallway, staring into the dim living room, wondering about how Janeway had come to that decision—if she’d had to talk herself into it or will herself into not talking herself out of it; had it been a whim or something she’d fully planned? Any way her brain can think to slice it, it dispels a lot of her anxiety about coming here. Or maybe the liquor is kicking in more. 

A shadow emerges from the bedroom and glides onto the divan, smooth and sure.

“I wasn’t entirely convinced you’d actually show up,” Janeway says from her seat on the divan, just loud enough to be heard the three or four meters away that B’Elanna is, and her voice is deep and ragged, the way Katrine had always sounded in the mornings after she’d stayed up all night chain smoking, drinking absinthe, and having unpleasant—according to Seven—sex with de Neuf. 

“Neither was I,” B’Elanna says.

“And I suppose you haven’t yet, technically. Are you going to stand in the hallway all evening, or are you eventually going to either go or stay?”

“Depends.”

“On what?” Janeway says.

“You haven’t invited me in.” Janeway laughs a dry, low rumble of a laugh, says,

“The door’s open. Is that not enough? Are you a vampire?”

“I have been known to bite.” Janeway hums, then:

“I mean, who among us hasn’t?” Her heart speeds up at that. All that overthinking in the turbolift had been unnecessary, she thinks. Surely, Janeway’d called her with a very clear purpose in mind. She’s glad she’d taken a sonic shower and put on a clean uniform before her truncated shift in Engineering.

“Who among us, indeed,” B’Elanna says as she finally steps over the threshold. She walks farther into the room, and her eyes adjust to the low light enough to register that Janeway’s draped over the divan in a pink satin nightgown, looking so clean and soft and deceptively languid—as if she’s got a hot coil of energy inside her jumping just beneath her skin that she knows how to disguise through years of practice. There’s a glass of red wine precariously limply held in her left hand, elbow on the armrest, and a half-full bottle on the coffee table next to an empty glass.

“Would you like a drink?” Janeway says.

“I never drink… wine,” B’Elanna says, not exactly a Dracula impersonation but not not one, either. Janeway laughs, her regular laugh this time.

“Is that the vampire talking? Or the tequila girl?” But her speaking voice is still so dark and rough.

“Not sure there’s much of a difference.” She sits at the opposite end of the divan. “Full disclosure: I had a nip or two before I got here.”

“Who among us hasn’t?” Janeway swallows the dregs of her wine, and B’Elanna watches her throat as her head dips back and her neck elongates and the muscles and sinews move. Her paternal grandmother had sung a lot of songs as she had baked or fried or char-broiled or grilled, and one that had always intrigued her had involved a lot of old-timey weights and measures that she hadn’t understood and still is pretty hazy about for the most part, but one line that had always particularly flummoxed her had been “you bet your pretty neck I do.” Young B’Elanna had never really gotten the idea of someone’s neck being an especially attractive region of the body, but she’s much older and wiser now, and Janeway’s got the prettiest neck she’s ever seen.

Janeway sets her finished glass on the coffee table next to the pristine one she’d set out in anticipation of B’Elanna’s arrival. She stretches and sighs before she returns to reclining in much the same way as she had previously, one arm slung over the back of the couch, another propped on the armrest, body strewn in between. B’Elanna watches the planes and curves of her settle on top of the cushions and beneath the satin, watches as Janeway’s eyes drag slowly over to rest on her face. Even in the dim light, or perhaps especially in the dim light, she can see the heat in Janeway’s eyes. In the short term, that’s a very good sign. B’Elanna unzips her uniform jacket and discards it on the coffee table, and she watches Janeway watch her. When she returns to reclining, it’s a few inches closer to Janeway, and their knees touch, barely—the wool of B’Elanna’s uniform slacks just skimming the nude pink freckled skin stretched tight over Janeway’s patella.

“Why did you call me tonight?” B’Elanna says. Janeway’s fingers drum on the back of the couch, close to B’Elanna’s left ear, and the reverberations tingle in the tiny hairs there.

“I remembered I forgot to tell you about my dream,” Janeway says. B’Elanna laughs. Janeway retains her general position, but she stiffens a little, hardens a little, as if the laugh had been weapons fire and she’s sent more power to shields. B’Elanna doesn’t know whether she wants to retreat and comfort her or attack and dismantle her, and she doesn’t have the time to choose. Janeway continues, “But that’s not enough of a reason for you, is it?” And her voice is hard as hull plating and just as cold. B’Elanna had laughed at the wrong time and inadvertently self-destructed without having known this would be the hill to die on. If she’d known, she’d have picked a better hill. Hills are so subjective. There’s slope, of course, but relation to sea level is what gets a hill in the record books. She throws a Hail Mary:

“I didn’t ask for me. I know my reasons, and I would’ve come here regardless of yours. I asked in order to remind you of your own reasons. And I laughed because you’re usually a much better liar.” 

They stare at each other, and then Janeway laughs in the way that throws her head back and exposes the long pale expanse of her pretty neck.

“I am, indeed, usually such a good liar. I’ve even fooled myself on occasion,” Janeway says. Her fingers that had been drumming along the back of the divan at B’Elanna’s ear drift and trace so lightly over B’Elanna’s cheekbone and down her jawline and then grip her chin, and they’re staring into each other. 

“Kathryn,” B’Elanna says. “There’s no need to fool yourself tonight.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Janeway says. She runs the pad of her thumb over B’Elanna’s lower lip. She closes her eyes, continues stroking very gently, says, “But just tonight. We’ll get this out of our systems, and we’ll go back to normal.” 

B’Elanna wants to laugh, but she’s learned her lesson. It’s just so much like what Seven had first proposed as a plan—go in waving the no-strings-sex white flag banner and… what had the rest of it been? Somehow get addicted to each other? Now that she thinks about it as she’s sitting here with Janeway touching her sensually, pretty certain what all’s going to happen next, instead of hanging out with Seven talking hypotheticals without much hope for any of it to come to fruition, she’s thinking it’s not such a great plan. Yeah, she’s definitely going to have sex with Janeway tonight because she has the motive, means, and opportunity, and she’d be stupid not to, but there’s no way anything afterward is going to be tidy, no matter how accurate Seven’s projections had been and especially no matter what Janeway says about getting it out of their systems. That’s a laugh and a half. Janeway ought to have seen the look in her own eyes just before she’d shut them. That hadn’t been a “I’m about to have a one-night stand; no big deal” look. And that last point is the scariest one. Janeway doesn’t want to just roll around and get sweaty with her. She cares about her. Maybe she should shut this down, after all.

“B’Elanna.” Janeway’s moved her hand down to rest on her neck, and her eyes are open again—all that heat and care, and now, question. “I need verbal confirmation that we’re on the same page.”

“We’re on the same page,” B’Elanna says, but she doesn’t mention that they might be reading different paragraphs containing conflicting information. She leans in and places a hand on Janeway’s hip. The heat of a woman’s skin through satin is one of those delicious things she hasn’t felt in a long time, like the first bite of a perfectly ripe fresh garden tomato, and she can’t help but sink her fingers in a little, gain purchase, pull them closer. She feels Janeway’s fingers tighten at her neck in answer, pushing in at the base of her skull and thumb doing that same skimming along her jaw that it had against her lip.

B’Elanna doesn’t know who has initiated the kiss, but their mouths are slotted against each other, and her tongue is in Janeway’s mouth, skimming molars and canines and tickling roof and soft palate, and Janeway’s other hand has bunched up the fabric of the front of her undershirt into a tight fist, and her own other hand is tangled in Janeway’s hair. Janeway’s hand at her breastbone unclenches and slithers down and around to claw at her back, press at her spinal column, and she moans at that. She doesn’t have the ridges there that some Klingons do, but she does have the heightened sensitivity. Her hand at Janeway’s hip slips down over the satin until it finds the satiny bare thigh skin and begins rucking up the fabric, relishing the feeling of her fingertips on hot supple flesh.

Suddenly, Janeway pulls her mouth away, stills her hand on B’Elanna’s back. B’Elanna freezes, ready to be kicked out. Janeway is panting and trembling under her hands.

“I. We should. I want you in my bed,” Janeway says, and both her hands are now at B’Elanna’s shoulders, gently pushing so that she can extricate herself and stand. She takes a deep breath and turns, walks purposefully toward her bedroom. B’Elanna follows.

The Starfleet-issue sheets are turned down, and Janeway stands there by her bedside table, staring at B’Elanna. She’s not sure exactly what Janeway’s waiting for or wants from her specifically, so she takes a guess and unfastens her slacks. Janeway sucks in a breath as she watches her disrobe, and then as B’Elanna takes the three steps between them, she pulls her nightgown over her head, revealing her milky nude body for a moment before she slips into the bed. She says, her voice scratchy and low,

“I haven’t been with anyone in years. I may have forgotten how.” B’Elanna doesn’t say anything about Seven’s intel, doesn’t want to have herself compared to Amelia Earhart. She says,

“I’m honored to jog your memory.” And she slips in next to her, nude body against nude body. Janeway reaches for her, but she dodges by ducking her head to drag her tongue in a line from sternum to umbilicus and then pushes her hips so that Janeway’s lying flat instead of on her side. And she descends further.

At first brush of tongue against hot, wet center, Janeway groans. At second, her hands are in B’Elanna’s hair. And after that, it’s all feverish bucking and wailing, and B’Elanna is lost in the salty sweet deluge of it all, drunk on her own power to make Janeway make such profane noises and beg for more.


	20. Chapter 20

Something has jostled B’Elanna awake—a shaking of some kind. She has the unsettling feeling that she’s somewhere she oughtn’t be, that maybe she’s back in that shitty singlewide she’d lived in briefly in between the Academy and the Maquis and that there’s been an earthquake. But no that’s not right. She’s on Voyager, but—oh shit she’s still in Janeway’s bed. She and the Captain are both on Alpha in the morning, and she hasn’t heard any alarm clocks yet, so this is probably as good a time as any to sneak out so they don’t have to do any reiterations of the “are we on the same page” talk. But as she’s sitting up, she feels the shaking again. It’s the mattress shifting as Janeway flops around violently, scratching at the sheets. She’s sweaty, and her face is contorted in pain. 

B’Elanna weighs her options: it’s six to one half dozen to the other whether waking a highly traumatized person from a nightmare will get you a thank you or a punch in the face. She hasn’t noticed Janeway’s having a particularly exaggerated startle response in her waking life—it’s usually those types who’ll attack during a wake up attempt. But on the other hand, even if she is the attack type, she’s been punched by people plenty stronger than Janeway for worse reasons.

If she restrains Janeway’s arms firmly but gently close against her chest and anchors her own knee against the side of Janeway’s rib cage pretty high up, maybe a few inches down from the armpit, she knows from recent experience with interesting positions that Janeway’s not flexible enough to kick her from that distance. Janeway flops again, and she calibrates her pounce, makes sure not to touch her until she’s sure she can grab both arms at once, and she’s got her pinned in the most non-threatening way she could think of on the fly and starts whispering to her,

“Kathryn. Wake up. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Her middle-of-night brain had remembered to not put too much pressure on her chest so as to not positionally asphyxiate her but had not accounted for Janeway’s core strength and blind determination, and Janeway headbutts her, hard. But at least she’s awake now. Although her eyes are wild and confused, and she’s bucking and trying to twist her wrists out of B’Elanna’s grasp.

“What the fuck is going on?! What are you— Oh.” The fight leaves her, and she collapses back onto her pillow, panting. B’Elanna releases her and remains sitting on her knees next to her, watching her calm down. Janeway says, “Sorry. That’ll leave a nice bump for both of us. I probably should’ve warned you. Mark always knew not to wake me up from a nightmare. Or, if it was a really bad one, to poke me with a broom handle quickly and from a safe distance away.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“I thought I’d taken pretty solid precautions. I should’ve known you fight dirty even in your sleep.” Janeway laughs, says,

“Fair.” She pauses and then, “What do you think our cover story ought to be for when we both show up in sickbay with matching goose eggs?”

“You think the Doctor would believe we were having a sleepover and our pillow fight got out of hand?” B’Elanna says.

“Honestly, I think he’d believe that before he’d believe the truth. Before all the Hirogen stuff, when Seven and I were still talking, we had a conversation about their weird humanity socialization classes—which… I don’t get why she subjects herself to that nonsense, but she seems to enjoy his company for whatever reason, so I guess it is what it is—and I don’t remember the exact details, but I do remember coming away from it with the distinct impression that the Doctor does not believe that lesbian sex exists.” B’Elanna laughs.

“He definitely knows about it, but he’s trying to avoid mentioning it because he thinks if he doesn’t put it on the table, she’ll quit asking questions about it and settle for him. Just the other day, Seven and I were talking about how she has the hots for— Fucking A, that’s probably supposed to be classified. Strike that from the record.” But Janeway’s already propped up on her elbow with an avid and mischievous look on her face, pinching the side of B’Elanna’s abdomen just above her hipbone where she’s very ticklish, and of course Janeway knows that from prior exploration.

“Oh no you don’t. Spill it, Torres.” B’Elanna bats her hand away, says,

“You really want me to betray Seven’s confidence? She and I are making a lot of progress in being friends. And part of being friends is keeping each other’s secrets.” She’s vaguely aware that she’s kind of being hypocritical, considering Seven knows all of Janeway’s business. But of course, it’s B’Elanna’s business, too, and she had willingly shared it.

“Seeing as how this whole evening is going to be redacted, I don’t see the harm in telling me. And even if that weren’t the case, whom am I going to tell? Chakotay’s not Seven’s biggest fan, so he won’t be interested. And Tuvok would rather eat glass than hear about humans’ love lives. The only other person I talk to these days about anything other than ship business or Neelix’s culinary masterpieces is you.”

“You should join the quilting group,” B’Elanna says. Janeway’s face is very confused, and B’Elanna amends, “Sorry to be presumptuous or an asshole or anything. But, that’s the lamest social circle. Don’t get me wrong. I love Chakotay and Tuvok; I trust either of them with my life. And honestly, if Tuvok didn’t have a wife and like sixty kids and grandkids at home, I might be dropping hints to him about his next Pon Farr because he is stacked. But they’re not exactly. Fun. Intellectually stimulating, maybe. But not fun. So. I know because of all that interrogation in the turbolift that fun is something you value, and I also know you quilt because you made that blanket for Naomi. I can’t vouch for everybody in the quilting group because I’ve never been because I’m not an arts and crafts gal. But Renlay Sharr, who is very fun, goes every week and says they bullshit the whole time and they have mojitos until they’re too blitzed to sew anymore.” Janeway looks at B’Elanna contemplatively as she runs her fingertips over B’Elanna’s quadriceps still so near her, says,

“That’s a very thoughtful suggestion. Or at least it would be if I didn’t know you were also trying to divert my attention from the matter at hand” Janeway says.

“Surely if the Delta Quadrant has taught you anything, it’s that more than one thing can be true at the same time.” Janeway laughs, but then the pressure of her fingertips changes from just something to do to keep her hand busy to a focused path traversing among three distinct loci: outer thigh just below hip, inner thigh just above knee, inner thigh just centimeters away from her center. Their eyes lock, and Janeway completes this triangle a few times very deliberately. And then she says,

“Hmm well. You might be right about that. But in the meantime, you have something I want. And I have something you want. Perhaps we could come to a trade agreement.” Janeway’s fingertips are at the second locus near the knee, and B’Elanna catches her wrist and then laces their fingers together, says,

“A trade agreement could be something. But. You’re counting on my not being able to control my base impulses. If you really think it’s harder for me to ignore your teasing just now than it’s been for me to ignore my ancestral, instinctive drive to mark you and taste your blood all night long, you’re super wrong.” Janeway squeezes B’Elanna’s hand.

“I had been wondering about that. Why didn’t you? I would’ve let you. Might’ve liked it even.” Janeway says with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

“That’s very flattering. But it’s not really the kind of thing you do with somebody you don’t get to continue having relations with.”

“Ah.” They look at each other for a moment, and then B’Elanna says,

“So I guess this is probably the right time for me to start gathering my clothes—” Janeway squeezes her hand again, says,

“I was kind of hoping you might want to barter for that intel…”

“Actually…” B’Elanna pauses. She really ought to tell Janeway that Seven will be analyzing this encounter with her over dinner, but she can’t quite push the words out. Janeway’s staring at her with that sweet, concerned face she can’t stand to look at, saying,

“Hey. If it’s really that big of a deal to you. A point of honor or something. I’ll drop it. I just didn’t want you to leave yet. It’s nice having a warm body in bed with you, especially if she’s willing to get headbutted if it means saving you from a nightmare.”

“You might reconsider your position after I get done talking. Um. So the thing is.” And before she can stop herself, she’s launched into the whole story—the French Resistance jealousy, cornering Seven, Seven’s seduction plan, the support group, the ranking of hottest science division personnel, the impromptu cocktail party in her quarters with Seven when Janeway had called. Janeway’s been watching her throughout, asking her no questions, just looking at her with an increasingly furrowed brow, but they’re still holding hands, and Janeway hasn’t stopped her to tell her she’s stupid. She hums, lets go of B’Elanna’s hand finally as she lies back down, and stares at the ceiling as she says,

“I suppose I would’ve preferred that you two had bonded over something other than my sex life, but there’s really not a lot to do about it now. I appreciate that you told me.” 

“Well. I probably would have preferred that, too. And I’m kind of surprised you’re not mad.” B’Elanna’s legs are starting to fall asleep, so she shifts to reclining against the headboard. Janeway reaches over and pats her on the knee, says,

“What’s there to be mad about? Two women processing their trauma together and giving each other advice and blowing off steam? Seems perfectly normal to me. Just unfortunate that so many of my own personal details have to be wrapped up in it.” 

“That’s another thing. The details, that is.”

“Excuse me?” Janeway says, a little heat in her voice. “You can’t mean that you’re not going to just confirm that we slept together and leave it at that.”

“I’ll be as vague as you’d like me to be. That’s why I brought it up. It’s not like I’m champing at the bit to disclose the finer points to a weirdo Borg whom I actively disliked a week ago. It’s just that. That was one of the most distressing things to her about Katrine and de Neuf—that they didn’t even like each other and when they were together it didn't even feel that good. I want to assure her that sex can be fun and nice and something to be enjoyed with somebody you like as a person. I don’t have to give a lot of detail to convey that. But I wanted your blessing on it anyway.” Janeway’s hand on her knee tightens as she says,

“Holy shit.” She sighs heavily. “We are all just so damaged it’s unreal.” B’Elanna sighs, too, says,

“And somehow, half of us were pretty fucking damaged before we even got to the Delta Quadrant. If you were already having nightmares when you were with Mark—” Janeway turns her head, stares into B’Elanna’s eyes, and B’Elanna knows she’s poked a bruise—or perhaps she’s poked a bear. Janeway’s nails dig into her knee, but her face is neutral as she says,

“I haven’t had a nightmare about that Cardassian prison I was briefly incarcerated in for the entire time I’ve been in command of Voyager. But apparently, the second I sleep with a Maquis, my subconscious is eager to take me back there.” B’Elanna grabs Janeway’s hand, says,

“Oh.” She’s not sure if she should apologize or console or what. “I didn’t know that you’d— Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not especially, but thanks for asking.”

B’Elanna slinks the rest of the way down so that they’re both lying there flat on their backs silently, eyes fixed on the ceiling, until Janeway says,

“So. Sam and Seven, huh? I don’t think I could’ve guessed that one. But the more I sit with it, the more I like it. If I were in Seven’s position of trying to figure out how to be a person, I think I’d be looking for somebody like Sam—stable, gracious, kind, fun, gentle.” She laughs. “I kind of was in Seven’s position in some ways when I met Mark, who’s exactly like that.”

“What?” B’Elanna says. She sometimes forgets how much she doesn’t know about Janeway because she always feels so seen in her presence, as though when they’re talking, whatever they’re talking about, it’s intimate. Even when they’re flirting and talking around each other, there’s an element of truth in it, something visceral. But she doesn’t have specific knowledge of a lot of integral parts of her. Janeway says,

“Pretty closely after the Cardassian prison thing, my first fiancé and my father died in an experimental craft the three of us were testing.” B’Elanna takes in a sharp breath—she hadn’t known that info either, and Kahless, had she been right about Janeway’s being damaged pre-Delta Quadrant—and Janeway continues as if those are normal events everyone goes through. “I spent several years working. Just working my ass off. Double shifts, triple shifts, getting promoted and getting shit done so I could fool my mom and sister into thinking I was ok, because I’d always worked hard and been stubborn, so it looked regular enough. But I was doing it because I didn’t want to think, and if I kept busy enough I wouldn’t have time. And then one day I realized the working wasn’t working. The not thinking wasn’t working. I was still so upset and so angry. So I finally got real and got some counseling and got back into some hobbies I’d neglected and got back in touch with some friends I’d neglected. And one night I was out drinking with some of those friends, and they were trying so hard to set me up, and they finally got enough amaretto sours in me for me to agree to be the Dolly Parton to Mark’s Kenny Rogers for a karaoke ‘Islands in the Stream.’”

B’Elanna turns onto her side so she can look at Janeway’s face. It’s serene in her remembrance, and a surge of affection grips her. She runs her index finger along Janeway’s bicep, says,

“Was he a good enough singer to carry the song? Because if your drunken rendition of ‘455 Rocket’ at Neelix’s First Contact Day party two years ago was an accurate depiction of your musical abilities, you might be able to talk-sing your way through a Loretta Lynn/Conway Twitty duet, but Dolly Parton was. A soprano with perfect pitch who could legitimately yodel.”

“Oh shut up. I already told you there were a lot of amaretto sours involved.” Now B’Elanna uses her index finger to poke her bicep, says,

“No but really. Does he have a nice voice?” Janeway turns her head, looks at her with a searching look and then,

“I liked it, but I was biased. Objectively, it’s better than mine but not as good as yours.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“You already got in my pants, so there’s no need for you to blow smoke up my ass.” Janeway smirks, says,

“I’ll admit you do hold your liquor better than I do and so have never sung publicly to my knowledge. But. Harry records his jam sessions so he can review them and practice to correct his errors accordingly. I caught him smiling at his PADD a while back, and I asked him what that was about. He let me listen to the recording. He didn’t explicitly reveal your identity, but I recognized you. And I was quite impressed.” B’Elanna groans, says,

“He promised me those recordings were just for his own edification and that he wouldn’t share them with anybody else.”

“It doesn’t count if it’s the Captain,” Janeway says.

“That could probably be said of a lot of things,” B’Elanna says. 

They stare into each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been years since I’ve read Mosaic, so I might be tripping about the details of Janeway’s past. But still. How messed up is it that Star Trek decided that a captain wracked with guilt about stranding her crew 70,000 lightyears from home who then confronts trauma after trauma on the way back required like The most tragic backstory?


	21. Chapter 21

“You sick or something? Since when are you not awake at 0530?” Tom’s voice says over the comm link.

B’Elanna’s commbadge had chirped while she had still been asleep, strewn haphazardly across Janeway’s bed, half beneath her. It had taken one call of “Paris to Torres” to wake Janeway, another one and some gentle nudging from a safe distance away to wake B’Elanna, and an additional one for them to remember where B’Elanna had taken off her jacket and for her to run to the couch to get it.

He’d asked if she had been at the gym and ignoring him in favor of finishing a set of decline push-ups, but he’d had such a smirk in his voice that she’s suspicious he’s got something up his sleeve.

“Had a long day yesterday and a little Bolian tequila to wind down. What do you want?” B’Elanna says, sitting back on the edge of Janeway’s bed. She’s determined to drink in every minute that she’s not being kicked out.

“Thought we could catch some breakfast and I could tell you about the visitor I had last night.” Janeway raises her eyebrows at that, and B’Elanna shrugs confusedly, says,

“And why would I be interested in what you and this mystery visitor got up to last night?”

“What we got up to isn't the interesting part.” Janeway opens her mouth, apparently to say something, but then her face seems to register that they’re not all just casually chatting in the Engineering office or on the Bridge and shuts it again, and B’Elanna watches her face journey, pushes her shoulder lightly, and laughs. “Already laughing and I haven’t even told you the good stuff yet,” Tom’s voice says. She and Janeway share a look and both roll their eyes. B’Elanna says,

“Laughing at you rather than with you. I’ll meet you in the mess in half an hour. Torres out.” 

Janeway sits up, says,

“Does Tom often call you first thing in the morning to tell you about his nighttime encounters?”

“When he first figured out I liked women he tried it once, but I shut it down immediately. I don’t really like the whole kiss-and-tell thing. So I don’t know what he’s playing at.” Janeway sets her hand on B’Elanna’s thigh, hums, says,

“Seems to me you’ve been doing a lot of kissing and telling lately.”

“And it’s all been very uncomfortable and counterintuitive for me.” Janeway pats her leg, and for a second she’s got that soft face that precedes her saying something tender and understanding, but then her eyes light up, as if struck by an idea, and she laughs:

“I just had a flash of what you and Seven might be like in a year or so, her calling you at dawn to inform you very clinically that she has engaged in intercourse with a new partner and would like to debrief—here she pauses so that you can appreciate her wordplay—the matter with you over a nutritional supplement.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“I don’t think she’s going to start carving notches into the outer column of her regeneration chamber anytime soon, and by the time she starts that shit, surely she’ll have somebody better to talk to about it than me.” Janeway slides her tongue over her top teeth, says suggestively,

“Don’t sell yourself short.” The hand on her thigh caresses now. B’Elanna’s cheeks heat. “You’re very easy to talk to, and I can’t think of a better resource for if she needs advice on… tips and tricks.” B’Elanna says,

“That’s quite an endorsement. Can I count on you for a reference letter should the need arise?” Janeway’s index finger is drawing slow, tight circles on B’Elanna’s inner thigh, and her face takes on a mock-contemplative look; B’Elanna can tell it’s fake thinking because of the small curve at her mouth, the sheen of naughtiness in her eyes, the sensual way she’s taking ground up her thigh.

“Hmm. I don’t think so. I’ve got a little bit of a jealous streak. But I’m sure you can acquire whatever position you want on your own merits.” Up until just now, B’Elanna’s believed—or at least half-believed—that Janeway would stick to her one-night-only rule, but this flirtatious statement contains some elements that give her pause: if Janeway’s really the jealous type, which she has no reason to doubt, she and Seven can work with that, and if she really believes that B’Elanna’s that talented, well… that one goes without saying. She can’t get cocky about it, though. She’s got to keep a cool head and not get her hopes up.

“You’re right. I am very well suited to a lot of positions,” B’Elanna says.

“Aren’t you just?” Janeway’s stroking her inner thigh so high up that the backs of her knuckles are brushing against B’Elanna’s center with each movement. “You’ll have to update your CV later, though. As it stands, you have an appointment in half an hour, and you need a shower.”

B’Elanna doesn’t usually enjoy shower sex that much. She knows anecdotally that other people like it, and in theory it sounds hot to her, but in practice it’s always been sloppy and unappealing. Typically, there are too many variables and too much sensory input for her to be able to focus. There’s the slick sliding of wet body against wet body. A slippery thing where there’s no friction of note. And friction is what makes most things exciting. She likes the warmth of it and the intimacy of it—in fact, loves washing somebody else’s hair—but it all just ends up blending together into a damp mush of mediocrity. 

But this time, with Janeway in the shower, it’s not like that.

It starts off pleasant enough. They’re standing there under the sonic spray, kissing and idly groping, and then Janeway seems to catch the vibe that B’Elanna’s not that into it and suddenly grabs her forcefully and wheels her around and presses her into the cool steel of the wall. Janeway’s front is flush against her back, and she’s growling into her ear,

“What’s the problem? Too slow and gentle for you?” Janeway’s hand snakes between their bodies and the fingers dig in and run up from B’Elanna’s tailbone straight up her spine with precise pressure up to the base of her skull. Either Janeway’s done her research about Klingon erogenous zones or she’d paid close attention last night. B’Elanna moans. “Lucky for you, we don’t have the time for slow and gentle, anyway.” She increases the pressure and runs her hand back down to tailbone and then at the same moment grabs B’Elanna’s hips with both hands and bites her at the juncture of neck and shoulder, and B’Elanna gasps, bucks back into her, one hand flying to clutch at Janeway’s hair, the other hand covering one of Janeway’s on her hip. 

It’s not a hard bite—more a suggestion of a bite, the feeling of teeth and suction without any pain or blood. And B’Elanna wonders at that even as it’s incredibly arousing to her. Is Janeway doing this in this way because she gets the gravity of that sort of thing in Klingon mating practices and understands the visceral appeal but also doesn’t want to send the wrong message? Or is it because she just doesn’t have it in her to draw blood intentionally without being provoked? Or is it just calculated foreplay? She’s not sure there’s much of a difference.

Janeway’s hand that isn’t covered by B’Elanna’s moves swiftly over ticklish flesh and descends.

“Listen to me,” Janeway says, low and raspy and ragged in her ear, as her fingers start an insane rhythm against her clit. And B’Elanna does listen, listens to her jagged exhalations and punctuating grunts. But she also feels, feels the gyrations of her hips behind her and the patternless, enticing path of her fingers, feels Janeway remove her other hand from her body. And she listens again, feels again when the exhalations and grunts change, and Janeway’s knuckles are grazing her as she touches herself in the same way she’s touching B’Elanna. B’Elanna cranes her neck even more than it already is, pulls Janeway to her with her hand in her hair, and they kiss, moaning into each other’s mouths.


	22. Chapter 22

“I was starting to get worried. Another five minutes and I would’ve been asking the computer for your whereabouts,” Tom says as B’Elanna deposits herself on the chair across the table from him in the mess hall at 0608. 

“Sorry I’m late. Got halfway here and realized I’d left the oven on,” B’Elanna says.

“Ha ha,” Tom says with a sing-song dryness, and then he looks at her for real, and his eyes widen. “Geez, what happened to your face?”

“What?” she says. He gestures to his own forehead. Oh shit. She’d forgotten to go to sickbay in her rush to get here sort of on time.

“Oh that. Fell out of bed during a nightmare.”

“That Bolian tequila’ll get ya,” he says, smirking.

“I wasn’t that toasted. I’m just a restless sleeper.” He shrugs, says,

“I guess I’ll have to take your word on it.” They look at each other. They’d almost tried something a few times. She does like dudes once in a while, and her taste in men is even worse than her taste in women. If she were sensible, she would’ve snatched Harry Kim up and fallen in love with him before she could figure out he’s too nice for her. But of course not. That would’ve been too simple. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s best that she and Harry are just friends. All his deaths probably would’ve pushed her over the edge by now, and she’d be possessive and controlling, and he’d grow to hate her for it, and Janeway would have to reprimand her all the time for doing reckless stuff to protect him. It’d be a whole bag of gagh.

“Suppose you will, Flyboy. I thought there was supposed to be food involved in this little tête-à-tête. I could eat a horse.” He rolls his eyes.

“I’ve never even successfully guessed what kind of drink you want at Sandrine’s. Why would I suddenly trust myself with a whole meal?”

“I guess you do have a point, but I will need sustenance to endure whatever it is you’re going to reveal. I can already tell.” He laughs and stands up.

“Well, come on then. Daylight’s burning.”

They go through the line at the counter. It’s not too long yet. The breakfast rush doesn’t usually start until seven, since Alpha starts at eight. A few people ahead of them, she sees Ensign Murphy, piling his plate full of the most bizarre items on offer, and after having watched him endure the ultimate chicken fry and now this, she wonders whether maybe he’s trying to punish himself. Maybe that rando caveman planet had done something to him or maybe he’s just like that—either adventurous or self-flagellating or both. Maybe if she ever goes back to the support group she’ll ask him. Maybe if she phrases it right she won’t be shut down. 

She’s been contemplating too long, and Tom elbows her gently in the ribs to get her moving down the line. She heaps on fake eggs, even faker bacon, a few real-looking tomato slices, and some Delta Quadrant analogue of French toast, doused generously with plenty of quasi-real maple syrup. It’s when she’s selecting from the murky and strangely colored “fruit” juices that she realizes she hasn’t seen Neelix, not even caught a glimpse of him bustling around in the kitchen behind the scenes. Maybe the guy does sleep, after all.

The eggs, as it turns out, are not fake. They’re Eskarian eggs, of ultimate chicken fry egg wash fame, and while they look pretty wonky, they’re actually quite good with enough hot sauce. She looks up from her eggs to grab for the Louisiana again and finds Tom sipping his coffee and staring at her.

“What?” she says.

“That dream that knocked you out of bed last night really must have worked up an appetite.”

“Kahless, Tom. You’ve obviously got something to say. Just say it already.” He sets down his coffee cup and leans in over the table a little, his eyes sparkling and his tone giddy as he says,

“Ok. So. Our resident Borg showed up at my quarters last night.” B’Elanna freezes, a mouthful of hot sauce burning her tongue, fork midair. She wills herself to chew again, swallow, say,

“Oh?”

“She’d been drinking Bolian tequila, you see.”

“Had she now?”

“Yes, with an anonymous crew member friend who had been suddenly called away to an important meeting. But as she had been making her way back to her own quarters, the thought struck her that maybe she wanted to explore having a drink with a friend a little further, and she remembered that I had been kind to her and that I had some experience seducing women, a topic that she had developed an interest in of late and would be interested in questioning me about, and so she had decided to forego regeneration indefinitely if I were amenable to such activities.” B’Elanna has the feeling this is more or less a direct quotation, but Tom has said it in his jovial way, no Borg inflection impersonation at all.

“And were you amenable to such activities?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely I was! I’d’ve had to be an idiot to pass up the opportunity to figure out what makes Seven tick other than just her commitment to efficiency.” B’Elanna tries the French toast, now. It’s almost right. Those Eskarian eggs are again an integral part of the operation. The bread beneath is just a tad off somehow, though, and she can’t put her finger on how. Maybe this isn’t French toast so much as Québécois toast. 

“People always seem to underestimate your compassion and intellectual curiosity. It’s too bad—” She almost says it’s too bad that Seven’s not into guys because they might be quite the combo, but that would give away her hand. She wants Tom to tell her whatever he’s going to tell her however he’s going to tell her. She suspects he knows she’s the anonymous drinking buddy, but she also suspects he’s not explicitly said so yet because he has a specific point in his tale where he wants to pull the veil off and metaphorically—or maybe even literally—say ta da, and she doesn’t want to steal his thunder.

“Aw. Thanks. That means a lot to me,” he says, smiling brightly. “Well anyway. I didn’t have any Bolian tequila. I just had regular old Earth tequila, so we made do. And she immediately got down to business, and I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but her first question was what’s the difference between friendly banter and flirtation. I wish I had known I’d be quizzed because I would have prepared better. I told her there wasn’t a lot of difference semantically but it was the intent and body language. I was just spitballing, though, but now that I think about it again, that’s probably right under most circumstances. She brought up several examples of interactions—verbatim because of her eidetic memory—involving different crew members for us to analyze together and try to interpret, and after the fifth or sixth scenario, I was pretty sure she knew exactly what was what and that she was stalling or being hyper vigilant or that she had some other insecurity that she wasn’t telling me about, so I finally just asked her who she wanted to bang. To my surprise, she flat out told me she wished to copulate with Samantha Wildman but that she was not sure her feelings were reciprocated because she often got so caught up in her own reactions that her cortical node’s readings of Sam ended up garbled and indistinguishable. So I suggested we ask Sam’s best friend for insight. And that’s how Seven, Neelix, and I ended up drunk in my quarters last night.”

B’Elanna’s having trouble masticating the fake bacon, and she’s also having trouble putting the pieces together of this story. Well, the story itself tracks, but she can’t figure out how Tom’s figured out she has anything to do with it. There must be something else. She says,

“Well I guess that explains why Neelix isn’t here this morning. Sleeping it off still.”

“Sure, there’s that. But you know the mess hall is the main hub for ship gossip. And that’s one of the things Seven hadn’t been telling me that got brought out into the light once Neelix arrived. I spent a lot of yesterday unconscious because of that V-type star, so I didn’t know that everybody was convinced you and Seven were a thing.” B’Elanna laughs a reflexive laugh, but he continues without acknowledging it, “So there’s this conflict Seven’s got because she’s committed to being your beard because you’ve got it bad for somebody you shouldn’t and don’t want anybody to know and because she’s not sure she’s ready to be with somebody because she doesn’t totally get it and because her sexual experiences in St. Claire have muddied the waters further, and what if Wildman does reciprocate but doesn’t want to be a homewrecker?” Well, B’Elanna guesses, that settles it: Seven’s a horny philosophical chatty drunk.

“That’s easy. We’ll stage a public break up. Gives me ample reason to be surly and unfocused—instead of my alleged pining after an alleged unrequited love. Of course, Wildman won’t want to be the rebound, so Seven’ll have to wait to make her move.”

“That’s what I said!” Tom says. “But Neelix wouldn’t have it. Couldn’t stand any kind of lying to Sam. And Seven agreed with him and then. Well. Then she expressed her frustration that the Captain wouldn’t just quit dicking you around. And I swear on my grandmother’s grave those were her exact words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve taken some liberties with canon. Paris/Torres is not my least favorite thing, and I really like them as friends. And every time I watch the pilot I yearn for the Kim/Torres that could have been.
> 
> Also, the whole Seven’s Borg systems can’t process alcohol thing is so lame. Hand in hand with the lameness of her not being able to have intense emotions. Manufactured nonsense drama. Let Seven have fun! Star Trek just loves to torture pretty ladies in skintight onesies so much, and I’ll not be a party to it!


	23. Chapter 23

Fortunately all the tasks for this morning are tedious and muscle memory rather than mentally difficult because B’Elanna’s been completely distracted thinking about whether Janeway has actually been dicking her around or if that’s just Seven’s impression given her own bias and how B’Elanna’s presented facts. She’s aware that her own subjective perspective and that Seven has not been talking to Janeway lately and has been increasingly receptive to an intimate friendship with her might influence her thoughts on the matter and fuel some not-completely-warranted antipathy. Seven’s got her back, and she likes that, and she’d like to think she also has Seven’s back, but sometimes an ally becomes overly zealous on your behalf out of blind allegiance, and the truth is more nuanced.

The truth in this instance might be a rather accidental dick around, more of a tricky navigation of actual feelings, compulsion to flirt but not knowing when to quit, fear of ruining professional and friendly relations, worry over public perception, and commitment to Starfleet regulations and primary responsibilities.

There’s also how she hasn’t told Tom or Seven that Wildman-as-homewrecker is not really a concern, considering she and Wildman have already had that conversation. But of course, during that she’d merely dispelled the notion that Brigitte and de Neuf had banged. She kicks herself realizing she hadn’t been more thorough.

This is all stupid. If only she’d said, “No thanks, Captain, I’d rather not have a drink with you when I know I want to kiss you and suspect you’d like that and start this snowball because it will definitely get bigger rolling down the hill and other people than just me will get caught up in it. Maybe the costs outweigh the benefits here.” No wonder Janeway has been reluctant to start anything with anybody. It’s a mess.

But it’s a contained mess for now that’s mostly just misunderstandings. She’ll talk to Seven at dinner and get it all sorted out, and they’ll all go their merry ways. Well. Everybody except her because she’ll still be pining after Janeway, who after she catches wind of this, will be extra rigid with her to compensate, which will turn her on and make her edgy, and the first time they’re alone together she’ll make a bad decision and Janeway will let her probably, at least for a little while, and then they’ll just have to avoid each other altogether.

She’s halfway to being ok with resigning herself to this series of events—or maybe there’ll be some variations, but she’s pretty sure she knows everybody well enough to predict the general direction it’ll all take—when Beta shift shows up. 

There are a few hours overlap between the two shifts in times when extra repairs are needed, and so she finds herself running a diagnostic on a bank of sickly bioneural gel packs and being handed a microspanner by Nicoletti, who doesn’t release the tool immediately. B’Elanna tugs gently, and it’s still not relinquished. She looks up into Nicoletti’s face, which is a concerned face, no characteristic teasing. Nicoletti says,

“Hey. Word on the street is you haven’t spoken ten words today, and you haven’t even looked at me since I got here. Everything ok?”

“Just zoned out thinking about stuff is all,” B’Elanna says.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No. Thanks, though. I just need to finish this shift, do a vigorous workout, and get some sleep.”

“Ok, Chief,” Nicoletti says, her voice skeptical but acquiescent. She finally releases the microspanner, and they continue working for another few minutes, and when the diagnostic PADD they’ve got wired into the frame blinks, buzzes, and shuts off entirely, B’Elanna sighs heavily. Her respite is over. She now has to use her brain for something other than riling herself up, and she’s not looking forward to it. Maybe Nicoletti’s having a good brain day and can cover for her. 

Alas, no. They’re both just sitting on the floor staring at the twelve unhappy little motherfuckers. 

“They kind of look inflamed, don’t they?” Janeway’s voice says from somewhere to B’Elanna’s right. “Like. Swollen almost.” B’Elanna turns to look at her. She’s leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, staring at the gel packs. She seems to feel B’Elanna’s gaze on her and turns her head to smile at her, such a soft, tender smile. That smile—and giving up seeing it—is going to be one of the hardest parts when they inevitably can’t look at each other anymore when the snowball’s too big to peer around. 

But B’Elanna smiles back. She can’t help it, and suddenly her brain works again. She hops up and touches one of the packs with the inside of her wrist, says,

“It does seem a little warm. Before the diagnostic fritzed out, it didn’t read an infection. But that’s not the only thing that causes inflammation. Could be an allergic reaction or—this is gonna sound dumb—muscle strain.” Nicoletti hops up now, too, says,

“Doesn’t sound that dumb to me. They don’t have muscles as such, but they have been working their little bioneural tails off.” She runs a tricorder over one and frowns. “Maybe a medical tricorder would be better. I’ll run up and get one.”

“Bring some hydrocortisone, too. If they can’t use it, I can. I’m quite sore,” Janeway says, giving B’Elanna a surreptitious, suggestive glance.

“Sure thing, Captain. I’ll bring a six pack. We’ll make a party of it,” Nicoletti says. B’Elanna and Janeway laugh. Nicoletti exits, and Janeway uncrosses her arms and puts a hand on B’Elanna’s shoulder, says,

“I’ve been swamped. Some joker alien hailed as soon as I got on the Bridge. He really thought he could try to buy women from us. All day I’ve been going around in circles talking him into some other kind of trade so he’d let us pass through their space. Finally got him convinced that leola root was just as valuable.” Her other hand rubs at her own trapezius. “But I’ve been itching to get down here.” She clears her throat, removes her hand from B’Elanna’s shoulder. “How are repairs?” Hmm. That pause might be something, but B’Elanna doesn’t want to start seeing signs that aren’t there.

“I’d give us a solid seventy five percent,” B’Elanna says. Janeway’s expression brightens, and she says,

“Wow! You may not be a vampire, but you are some kind of magical being.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“Would love to accept that compliment, but it’s mostly Vorik. He was also stuck in a turbolift yesterday, but instead of—” she’s not sure how comfortable Janeway might be with hearing her say out loud anything about what they’ve done together and plays it safe “—socializing, he spent all six hours meditating and having epiphany after epiphany about how to fix everything. Once out of the turbolift, he immediately wrote everything down and sent it to me, took a shower and a power nap, and got to work. I did correct several errors and expand on some ideas and put together a roster of who should be doing what according to individual strengths and weaknesses. So I guess, if anything, I’m magical middle management.” Janeway laughs and places her hand on her forearm.

“Magical regardless,” Janeway says. She clears her throat again. “So. What’d you tell the Doctor? About your hematoma?”

“Fell out of bed during a nightmare.” She doesn’t say she’d thought of this lie talking to Tom, who knows exactly where she was last night through no fault of her own.

“Phew. I figured you’d go with that, so I tripped over a hastily discarded shoe and bonked my head on the doorframe on my way to the bathroom in the dark,” Janeway says. She squeezes B’Elanna’s arm and steps a tad closer, lowers her voice. “However. The Doctor commented that it was odd that he’d seen two very similar minor head injuries within an hour when there’d been no ship wide emergency within that hour to precipitate that sort of thing. And also that my hematoma had distinct ridge-like markings in it that he was intrigued by. I’m sure he’s analyzed the pattern by now.”

“And it’s common knowledge that Klingon ridge patterns are as distinctive as fingerprints,” B’Elanna says.

“Precisely. But even so, best case, he’ll think it’s weird that we both lied to him and drop it. Worst case, he’ll call us in for some kind of mediation.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“No, worst case, he’ll skip talking to either of us and have Tuvok arrest me for assaulting you. He’s probably already got a whole scenario dreamed up where we were arguing about what to repair first and I lost my temper and attacked you.”

“Oh shit. That is plausible. It’s times like these that I wish Kes were still here. She was a born diplomat.” While B’Elanna does agree and definitely does miss Kes, she feels an unexpected pang of jealousy. Janeway had been exceptionally free expressing physical affection with Kes, and she’d always wanted that same kind of access to those warm and steadying hugs, wanted to be invited into Janeway’s embrace to cry in her arms. Fuck and a half. It’d be so much easier if she just wanted to fuck Janeway or if she just wanted Janeway to be her safe person. But wanting both, and even worse, wanting to be both for Janeway is almost maddening.

“Maybe we ought to—” Janeway begins, but Nicoletti has returned, and she puts on her Captain voice, “Maybe we ought to check the rest of the gel packs while we’re at it.” 

B’Elanna nods weakly.


	24. Chapter 24

Dosing every single bioneural gel pack with hydrocortisone had proved a longer, more arduous task than it had originally seemed. B’Elanna had already assigned most of the less experienced and less technically adept personnel she would normally assign to this sort of thing to other essential but menial tasks, and even if she had had some spare workhorses, the Doctor had assured her that the administration of the medication—that had been mostly regular old hydrocortisone and a few other ingredients that she had suspected had included WD-40 from the smell and some nanotechnology from the weird vibration—would require a delicate touch and a discerning eye, so she’d had to do it herself, spending the rest of her shift crawling through Jefferies tubes and palpating sick gel packs. So she’s already stiff, sweaty, tired, and annoyed when she arrives a little late at the mess hall for her dinner with Seven, and she almost just turns right back around when she spots her at a booth in the back corner of the mess.

“What is this? An intervention?” B’Elanna says. Seven, Neelix, and Tom look up at her from where they’ve been hunched over the table conferencing sotto voce.

“I apologize. I didn’t realize you would be displeased that I invited Neelix and Lieutenant Paris,” Seven says. B’Elanna takes a glance around to make sure they’re far enough away from the other tables that she might reasonably not be overheard when she leans over and props herself on her elbows, inches from Seven’s face, and angry whispers:

“And why wouldn’t I be displeased? You expect me to sit here and enjoy a nice manicotti while I tell you and these two blabbermouths all the details of how Janeway likes to be fucked so that you can learn about humanity and so that they can have a little extra something to take out from their nightstand drawers on long, lonely nights? Hell, maybe that’s your real motive, too!” Neelix and Tom both suck in a sharp breath simultaneously and rear back as if she’s splashed boiling water in their direction. Seven remains perfectly still, but her jaw has tightened, and her eyes are now fixed and cold.

“That was not my intention,” Seven says, evenly but very curt and clipped and dangerously low. “I had assumed you would understand that we would have a more intimate conversation about the events of last evening when we were in a private setting. I had also assumed you would understand that I had invited them so that we could, as a group with distinct individual insights into different variables of the situation, discuss next steps regarding our false relationship and the individuals we are actually interested in pursuing. It seems I have both overestimated the degree to which you trust me and underestimated your tendency toward malice and vulgarity.”

B’Elanna stands up and drags a hand over her face and sighs deeply. She hates it when Seven’s right. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. She hates it when Seven’s right and she’s wrong. She kind of likes it when Seven’s right and she’s putting other people in their place. It’s that thought that reminds her that she does like Seven and she does trust her and she probably should have given her the benefit of the doubt. She says,

“I’m sorry, everybody. That was unwarranted. Thank you for assuming I would be more understanding. Sorry to disappoint you. And I really didn’t mean what I said about the nightstand drawers. I said that to be mean because I was upset and I’m very tired. So. What’s the filling in the manicotti?” Seven crooks an eyebrow but slides over in the booth so that B’Elanna can sit next to her. There are four plates of manicotti on the table as it is the only thing that’s being served for dinner, and B’Elanna cuts into it with the side of her fork and then prods at the slice she’s just severed with the tines as Neelix says,

“Ricotta—well, a fair approximation of ricotta. And chopped veal—that is, technically genetic beef that’s been synthesized in a specialized grow tank for the purpose of being used as nutritional protein without ever having been a living cow, harvested very early.”

“I’d say top ten best Delta Quadrant meals,” Tom says. 

“Thanks, Tom!” Neelix says, and Tom gives him a high five. She takes a bite. It’s not great flavor-wise, but it’s got the right texture, which is pretty impressive considering the nature of ricotta.

“I know that you appreciate a well-organized meeting,” Seven says, looking at B’Elanna. She takes all this explicit ignoring of what she's said, including the subsequent apology, to mean that she’s been forgiven and that they’re ready to move on. Seven continues, “So first, we would like to establish the extent to which—” she lowers her voice “—the woman in question dicked you around last night. Lieutenant Paris, your report.” He clears his throat and wipes his mouth with his napkin, says,

“Well, uh, I had a half shift in sickbay this morning, and when I went to clock in and look at my schedule for the day… The Doctor had two tabs open on his console, one the subdermal scan of a female crew member’s—name redacted on the scan—superficial head wound with very distinctive ridge-like bruises in it. And the other was a picture of your forehead, which he was apparently comparing the pattern to. And I remembered that you had that goose egg this morning. So. What gives? The—” he lowers his voice, “—woman in question called you into her quarters but then instead of… following through, you two got in a fight?”

All three sets of eyes are on her, searching her. But somehow, she doesn’t feel that any of them are seeking titillation or gossip. They all seem to be genuinely worried about this imagined altercation. They all seem to genuinely want real answers because they all seem to genuinely care.

“Did the Doctor come to the same conclusion you did—I mean, without the part about my having been called to her quarters last night, of course?” B’Elanna says. They all continue looking at her, confused and concerned. Tom says,

“I tried to bring it up, as like a joke. ‘So, who’s Torres been beating up this time?’ But he said I was an unprofessional child and it was against medical ethics to further discuss it. But later I did hear him muttering to himself something about ‘why are they both lying to me?’”

“Damn it. Write to me when I’m in the brig?” B’Elanna says. Tom leans in over the table, eyes wide, says,

“You’re saying that’s what happened?” B’Elanna laughs a little nervously, says,

“No, not at all. But yeah, Janeway did headbutt me, but it was an accident. You know how it goes when you try to wake somebody up from a nightmare. Sometimes there’s subconscious violence involved that can’t be avoided.” They all listen and then execute a slightly different version of the same understanding shrug. Between Neelix’s planet’s annihilation, and Tom’s multiple incarcerations, and Seven’s perfect memory of every horrible thing that’s ever happened to her, they’ve all got plenty of nightmares, and they’re all plenty familiar with being woken up from nightmares and waking others from nightmares.

“I know that much of what you said has implied as much, but I would like explicit confirmation that the—woman in question did not continue her pattern of behavior of allowing you a modicum of the physical intimacy she obviously desires with you and then abruptly ending the encounter without explanation,” Seven says.

B’Elanna looks at Neelix and Tom in turn, and they’re both studying their manicotti suddenly, their respective cheeks pink. She looks back at Seven. Seven reminds her again of that Academy roommate who hadn’t exactly been her friend. That roommate had been so protective of her, had never let her drink any fraternity house mystery punch, had always meticulously vetted all her sexual partners. Maybe that roommate had liked her, after all. Maybe she should have recognized that care and appreciated it instead of just being perpetually annoyed by her music taste and penchant for disgustingly sweet incense and habit of leaving her chewing gum wrappers on B’Elanna’s desk. She leans closer to Seven, knowing that Neelix and Tom are trying very hard not to listen and also knowing that Seven can perceive lower frequencies than human or Talaxian ears. She whispers, just audible to Seven,

“We had sex. On the condition that it was a one-time thing. But she did ask me to stay all night, and she did manufacture a reason to visit me in Engineering today. So I’m sure I’ve got more dicking around to look forward to in my future. I know you want a full run down when we’re in private, but let me just assure you up front so you’re not wondering, it wasn’t mean or angry or fully clothed. We had sex like people who actually like each other do.”

“That is comforting,” Seven whispers back. She pauses, and if B’Elanna didn’t know better, she would call it a stumble more than a pause. “B’Elanna. Thank you for your candor.” Seven straightens and speaks again in her full, clear voice: “First and second orders of business on the agenda have been covered.” Tom and Neelix look up at that, still visibly uncomfortable but alert. “Third order of business: the false relationship you and I are enacting. Neelix, your report.”

“Ah yes well,” Neelix sputters. “By my estimation from my first-hand knowledge of what people talk about at meal times, at least thirty percent of the crew now believe that you and Seven are an item. At this time yesterday, it was twelve percent. It’s really too few data points to create an accurate model, but if we were to extrapolate based on the known factors—”

“I get the math. But what’s your point?” B’Elanna says. Neelix says,

“My point is, without the holodecks, people are getting antsy for some kind of entertainment, and this is proving a significant event that people have already become emotionally invested in. At this juncture, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or false because the idea of it has already taken hold. I’m seeing a very adamant pro-Seven/Torres faction and an equally adamant anti-Seven/Torres faction. And both factions are going to be paying close attention to a public break up, looking for reasons and scapegoats.”

“Ok?” B’Elanna says. “That’s gossip for you. Why do we care? There have been worse rumors. And also, I thought you weren’t on the public break up train?”

“Well, I spoke to Sam—” B’Elanna doesn’t know if she’s angrier at the situation or herself for getting them all into the situation or maybe Janeway for not shutting it down better. An impotent, stupid, illogical anger. She presses her fingernails into her palms, hard, so that she doesn’t lash out again. She growls out,

“At this rate we won’t need any kind of break up, public or otherwise.” 

“She already knew that you’re not interested in Seven, and she doesn’t know about your involvement with… that lady.” Neelix says. “My priority was ensuring that Sam wouldn’t be hurt by all this, not spilling your secrets. Even if you weren’t very scary in your own right, _that lady_ has got a mean right hook, and I’d hate to have a reason to be on the receiving end of it.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“She’s damn good at head butting, too.” The joke falls flat, and she’s a little dejected because she knows Janeway would’ve laughed. “Anyway, I still don’t really get why a public break up when the time is right isn’t a good idea. Won’t that just add to the drama? Give people something to chew on until the next thing catches their attention?”

“I don’t think you want to invite that scrutiny,” Tom says. “People get resourceful and sneaky when they want to get to the bottom of something. Next thing you know, everybody’s wondering why you spend so much time on Deck 3.”

“Everybody knows why I spend so much time on Deck 3. That’s where the gym is. And besides, we’ll drop false clues during the public scene. Maybe Seven accuses me of something untoward during my bi-weekly holodeck rendezvous with Harry that I refuse to give her details about.” She turns suddenly to Seven and puts a hand on her shoulder. “That’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about in real life, actually. Remind me later, ok?” She’s a decent pianist and can play and sing at the same time, but one or both performances usually suffer a little. If Seven were to sing lead instead, she could just come in with harmony once in a while. And maybe Seven could pick up drums or bass or something for their instrumental pieces. They could have a nice little trio if Seven’s interested and Harry isn’t weird about it. She drops her hand from Seven’s shoulder, turns back to face the whole table. “And then I say something like ‘Well, I’ve seen the way you look at Tal Celes, like your cortical node sees through fabric.’ Or maybe not a cheating angle but pettier stuff like, ‘If I step on one more hairpin from your Hu'tegh French twist, I’m going to lose my mind.’”

“That sounds like a reasonable solution,” Seven says.

“I don’t know,” Neelix says. “The more fake details you add, the more upset everyone will be if or when they find out just how fake everything’s been. I think the best course of action is sticking to the truth as closely as possible. Nobody wants to feel like they’ve been duped, you know?” Tom snaps his fingers, says,

“I got it! We’re going about this all wrong! Seven and B’Elanna need to be alternately noncommittally silent and dismissive regarding rumors and vociferously vocal in their denial of the relationship. Make it seem like they’re trying to keep it on the down low but protesting too much, you know? It’ll fuel more rumors, plenty of good entertainment there, and then when it comes out that they aren’t together and never have been, it’ll just be a collective, ‘Oh. So they were telling the truth the whole time.’ No betrayal, just misunderstanding. Clean.”

“I like clean,” B’Elanna says.

“As do I,” Seven says.

“That could work,” Neelix says.

“I’m not interrupting an important conference, am I?” Janeway says, suddenly looming over their table holding a tray containing manicotti and a coffee cup.

“Oh of course not, Captain. Feel free to join us,” Neelix says, stiffly affable. He scoots over closer to Tom, but Janeway ignores him, slides into the booth next to B’Elanna.

“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do,” Janeway says, her thigh pressed taut against B’Elanna’s thigh. She cuts a bite of manicotti with her fork and then blows on it. She looks up and seems to catch the weird vibe at the table, says, “You’re sure I’m not intruding?”

“You are the Captain. You have the prerogative to intrude if you so wish,” Seven says. Her voice had been even, but B’Elanna had felt the ice there.

“So I am intruding,” Janeway says. She puts down her fork and then cuts her eyes at Seven and at B’Elanna in turn. She scrunches her brow, says, “My apologies.” She stands, takes her tray to the recycler.


	25. Chapter 25

The remaining twenty-five percent of power to be regained is proving difficult. Much of it is fiddly bullshit that takes hours to calibrate just to have to recalibrate it an hour later. And much of it will require more deuterium than they have. And much of it is fabricating new parts to replace fried old ones. They could really use a week or two in dry dock. But of course that’s not an option, so B’Elanna’s been pulling double shifts again, which is probably for the best. Less time to think about Janeway or dodge the Doctor about her suspicious head injury or how her hip’s doing or have long discussions with Seven or undergo further strategy meetings with Neelix and Tom. Especially after that first one. Janeway had left the table, and B’Elanna had scowled at Seven, about to say something cutting that she would almost definitely regret, when Seven had surprised her by scowling right back and whispering,

“That presumptuous woman thinks she has the right to tell you she does not want to pursue a romantic relationship with you and yet also walk into a public area and practically sit in your lap. You may be willing to endure her capriciousness, but I have no intention of giving her the impression that I approve. And in fact, I would like to give her the impression that she should work a little harder if she would like to continue having you at her disposal.”

Sure, Seven had had a point from a certain perspective, but it’s that same old thing she’s not certain about—that capriciousness that may or may not be real that’s probably more just Janeway dealing with her own shit. She’d tried to express that to Seven the next night when they’d both come off double shifts and had had their more in-depth conversation about what all had occurred in Janeway’s quarters. She’d even been sober for it, foregoing the Bolian tequila this time to ensure that on the off-chance she were to be called away somewhere that Seven wouldn’t end up half-drunk on somebody else’s doorstep. But the intimacy B’Elanna had described had only seemed to enrage Seven more. She had said,

“Katrine was under constant threat of being killed for both being a spy and a homosexual and yet regularly engaged in far less emotionally and physically satisfying acts with a woman she didn’t even like. The Captain is under no such threat. Her behavior is as illogical as it is cruel.” Again, they’d gone around in circles about Starfleet protocol and Janeway’s personal guilt. And now there had also been the newly uncovered info about her being present when her first fiancé had been killed so maybe she has some pretty warranted reservations about getting close to people in dangerous situations. But Seven had basically maintained her position that Janeway’s dicking her around.

So when, on top of the current energy situation, a photon torpedo gets stuck in a launch tube and she and Tuvok are the only ones qualified to disarm and dispose of it and then investigate what had gone wrong and check for similar problems with the entire armament, she’s glad to have a legitimate reason to avoid everybody for a little while. Suddenly acquiring a very intense new best friend the same week she fucks the Captain is just a little too much for her. 

The torpedo thing had taken four days, and on day five she’s definitely ready to go back to Engineering. By her new estimates, which are conservative because they’re based on other people’s data, they’re up to about eighty-six percent, and if they can get their hot little hands on some deuterium, they’ll be able to reopen the holodecks at limited capacity, probably public-only for a few weeks, but still at least people could be skiing and going to strip clubs instead of playing gin rummy and gossiping about her. This is what she’s thinking about—maybe modifying some long-range scans with Seven and Harry to hopefully spot some pay dirt in a comet or something—as she’s shining her boots that morning and her door chimes.

“Are you decent?” Janeway’s voice says.

“Me? Never. But come on in.” The door swishes open, and Janeway walks in, straight over to the couch, where B’Elanna’s sitting on the floor with her back against it, cross-legged in her uniform slacks and undershirt with her little polishing station in front of her. Janeway’s smiling, but it’s a tired, sad smile. B’Elanna says, “What’s up?” a little worry edging her voice. Janeway waves a dismissive hand, says,

“Just wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Have a seat. You want some coffee? Pot’s on the replicator.” Janeway nods, says,

“Thanks.” She goes over and chooses a gaudy ceramic souvenir mug from one of the planets they’d traded with several months ago from the shelf beside the replicator, pours a cup, comes back to the couch. Instead of sitting on it, she slides down to the floor next to B’Elanna, leans her head back to rest on a cushion.

“Something wrong, Captain?”

“No. Just tired.”

“I get that.” Janeway looks at her, says,

“Yeah. I wanted to talk to you last night as soon as you finished, but I figured you deserved a little rest.”

“I can’t say I would’ve gotten any less rest if you’d gone ahead and come over. Do you know even one crewman who sleeps through the night?” She hums, then:

“Naomi does. I babysat her a while back when Sam was on an away mission. I was envious but then also wracked with guilt that we’re bringing up this child to think all this nonsense is normal.” B’Elanna laughs. It’s not funny, but it is. She says,

“On the other hand, she’s growing up both resilient and loved. It’s gotta count for something that she’s got 140 parents who adore her. Well. Probably more like 30 parents. The rest of us are more like eccentric aunts and cousins.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Janeway says.

“And she’ll be perfect to take over your job in thirty years.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” B’Elanna bumps their shoulders together, says,

“As if you would ever retire anyway. But surely you’re not here to talk about Voyager as a generational ship.”

“Well, yes and no. First, thank you for your tireless work these past weeks, especially the last few days. You did such a good job with the torpedoes. That could have been a much bigger disaster than it was.”

“That’s high praise. Thanks. But I was just doing my duty.”

“I know,” Janeway says and sets her hand on B’Elanna’s forearm, takes a drink of coffee.

“So. What’s the issue?” Janeway squeezes her arm, says,

“I need you and Tuvok to put together a curriculum to train a few other people for hazardous devices. We’ve got to have more people who can do this sort of thing. I can’t lose both of you at the same time. The ship couldn’t handle it, and I couldn’t handle it personally.”

“Oh.” They look at each other for a long moment, and B’Elanna wants to say something about it, ask her what she means by that last part, but it’s too early in the morning for that. She’d rather have that discussion at night when she can let her subconscious rile her up through dreams rather than have to wallow in it consciously all day long. And besides, there’s the way Janeway’s looking at her with that fucking tenderness she can’t stand. She looks away, goes back to polishing, and Janeway says,

“I know it’s extra work for you, but—”

“I kind of like the idea. Being in charge of a bomb squad. Might work on some recruitment posters when I get off shift tonight,” B’Elanna says. Janeway laughs, says,

“That’s kind of putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think?”

“Oh I’m sure Professor Tuvok will take care of most of the pedagogy. It’ll be up to me to make sure we have pupils. Especially after that Maquis re-education program, nobody wants to sign up for a Tuvok class.” She’s done now with her boots and sets them aside, wipes her hands on her slacks.

“Not even one where you get to blow stuff up?” Janeway says as she places her mug on the coffee table. 

“When they figure out the class is more about making sure stuff doesn’t blow up, it won’t be as much of a draw.” Janeway rolls her eyes and again places her hand on her arm and squeezes it, says,

“Well. Regardless. Thank you for being willing to do this.”

“Something you may not know about me is that one of the reasons my failure at the Academy hurt me so badly is that I’m deep down a teacher’s pet type. So I like being assigned special projects.”

“Funny, you’ve never put an apple on my desk.”

“Thought I could win more points with you in other ways, I guess.” Before Janeway can take it the wrong way and retreat, she continues, “My dad always said the only reason he passed half his classes was that he had a habit of befriending his teachers and fixing their hovercraft.” B’Elanna says.

“Good old fashioned quid pro quo. Highly unethical, but I guess needs must.” Her hand is still on B’Elanna’s arm, and her fingers start to brush lightly, and her voice changes, becomes a touch husky. “You’ve fixed a lot of stuff for me. I feel bad that I can’t give you a letter grade for your efforts.” B’Elanna stretches out her legs, reclines further against the couch, lolls her head to look at Janeway, says,

“And what grade would you give me?”

“You’re putting me on the spot. Didn’t even give me time to get a rubric together.”

“I figured rubrics weren’t necessary for quid pro quo,” B’Elanna says. Janeway’s fingers are making slow, achingly soft gibberish patterns on her forearm, and she’s got goosebumps from it. Janeway doesn’t stop; she grips her arm and turns it over and resumes her not-pattern on the underside, over the tendons and veins of her wrist and then back up to near the crook of her elbow.

“So you’re saying it’s just a matter of whatever I think you deserve,” Janeway says.

“More like what’s considered fair payment for services rendered.” Somewhere and somehow during this exchange, Janeway has scooted closer to her, and they’re sitting very close together, Janeway tucked against her side.

“You say that as if you think I might stiff you,” Janeway says.

“To my credit, you play everything close to the vest, you hate to lose, and you’re a hustler from way back. Why wouldn’t I think you would take any opportunity to stiff me?” Janeway laughs a low chuckle, and the breath of it so near her cheekbone raises more goosebumps on B’Elanna’s neck. Janeway says,

“You make me sound like a Ferengi.”

“You do have very sensitive earlobes, after all.”

“Let she who is without that particular sensitivity cast the first stone,” Janeway says, low, into B’Elanna’s ear. B’Elanna places her hand over Janeway’s on her forearm, stilling the movement, and looks into her eyes. They stare at each other for a moment, fingers intertwining.

“Kathryn,” B’Elanna says, ragged, just this side of a whisper. “Is it out of your system?” 

Janeway blinks, says,

“No.” Janeway pauses and then: “Is it out of your system?”

“To get it out of my system you’d probably just have to kill me,” B’Elanna says.

Janeway surges forward and takes B’Elanna’s mouth. They kiss fervently, feverishly. B’Elanna clutches at her, a hand tangled in hair, a hand digging into back ribs. They moan into each other’s mouths as they push into each other, body to body, hips undulating. Soon, B’Elanna is laid out on the floor, and Janeway is on top of her. She pulls away just far enough to get B’Elanna’s shirt off, and then she’s back to kissing her, hands everywhere. When she moves down to kiss and suck and scrape her teeth against her throat, B’Elanna says, with great difficulty both because she’s panting and because she doesn’t really want to say it,

“Stop.” Janeway does so, but she remains where she is, with one hand on B’Elanna’s breast and the other in her hair, her face in the crook of her neck. B’Elanna can feel her eyelashes fluttering closed as she says into her neck,

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I just want to know the rules.” Janeway moves her head just enough that they can look at each other.

“Rules?”

“It seems to me this is going to keep happening. So if we don’t want to just never be alone together, we need rules,” B’Elanna says. Janeway sits up on her knees, still straddling her, and runs a hand through her hair, sighs.

“I guess we do. I… I don’t know if it’s a good idea that we continue to… do this.”

“I don’t know either,” B’Elanna says. “But I want to.” Janeway avoids her eyes as she says quietly,

“I do, too.” B’Elanna runs her palms over Janeway’s quadriceps, says,

“So.”

“So,” Janeway says.

“Should we just… see what happens? Or make appointments? Or…?” Janeway laughs mirthlessly, says in a transatlantic secretary voice,

“‘Ah yes, what’s on my schedule for this week… Tuesday: staff meeting. Wednesday: almost get killed by Delta Quadrant monster. Thursday: dinner with Chakotay. Friday: drinks at Sandrine’s. Saturday: fuck my chief engineer. Sunday: tennis with Tuvok.’” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“You forgot ‘Monday: quilting group.’”

“I knew I was missing something,” Janeway says, rolling her eyes.

“And anyway, Saturdays don’t work for me. Seven has decided that’s our day to hang out.”

Janeway scrunches her brow, cocks her head, says, 

“That’s another matter to consider. If we are going to… see each other, I don’t know how comfortable I am with Seven knowing about it. I know she’s not a gossip, but she seems to be pretty displeased with me currently, and—” It’ll be easier to bring up the displeasure, which Janeway is right about, than the gossiping, which Janeway is unfortunately wrong about, so B’Elanna says,

“Do you know why?”

“Why she’s mad at me? No idea.”

“Because she thinks you’re dicking me around.”

“Excuse me, what?”

“That you’re… you know. Teasing me, basically. Flirting with me all the time and then not following through.”

“Oh,” Janeway says, and she looks abashed or maybe ashamed; B’Elanna can’t tell which. She says,

“There’s a little more to it than that, though. You mind if we move to the couch for this? I’m getting a crick in my neck having to look up at you at this angle.” Janeway hums but doesn’t move to stand. B’Elanna starts patting around for her shirt, and Janeway leans over and grabs her wrists, pins them above her head on the floor.

“We’ve got forty five minutes. What if we had dinner tonight to finish this discussion, and right now I… follow through?”

“‘Tuesday: Fuck your chief engineer and then staff meeting.’” Janeway laughs and descends the rest of the way, kisses her slow and deep and gentle and releases her arms to thread her fingers through her hair as she continues kissing her and begins grinding her hips. B’Elanna moves her hands to the closure of Janeway’s jacket, unfastens methodically. When Janeway sits up to take it off, B’Elanna sits up, too, kissing her again and helping her out of the jacket, and then she’s working on the trousers. Janeway bats her hands away and stands up.

“I don’t think my knees can take that metal floor much longer,” she says as she strips off her pants.

“I was hoping you might say that. I’ve usually got to be pretty toasted to consider floor sex a viable option.” B’Elanna says on her way to the bedroom. Janeway says,

“But you would make an exception for me?” 

B’Elanna turns abruptly, and Janeway’s late to stop walking, runs right into her, which, of course, had been B’Elanna’s plan, and she grabs her hips and pulls her close, says,

“Have to take it where I can get it.” And she’s kissing Janeway’s jaw, up to her ear and then biting her earlobe lightly. Janeway moans but then unclasps B’Elanna’s bra and tugs it off, husks,

“Oh bullshit. You could get it anywhere you wanted. But you chose the most frigid bitch on board to seduce because you like a challenge.” B’Elanna snakes her hand into Janeway’s underwear, strokes over her wet heat with one finger. Janeway gasps at the contact.

“Frigid? News to me,” B’Elanna says. Janeway pushes at her shoulders, guides her to lying on the bed and then climbs on top of her. B’Elanna hasn’t removed her hand from Janeway’s underwear and is now stroking more quickly and firmly, and Janeway is gyrating above her, bucking into her hand. She circles Janeway’s clit and then enters her, fast and hard. Janeway groans and clenches and quickens the rhythm between them. B’Elanna’s other hand is on Janeway’s hip, fingernails pressing in. Janeway twists one of B’Elanna’s nipples between her thumb and index finger and then dips down to kiss her, all tongue and teeth. And Janeway’s tearing at the elastic band of B’Elanna’s underwear, scrambling beneath.

“Fuck, B’Elanna. Why didn’t I make sure we were both naked for this?”

“Maybe you like a challenge, too,” B’Elanna manages to eek out.


	26. Chapter 26

Lieutenant Carey had given the engineering report since B’Elanna hasn’t set foot in the place for most of the week. She’d met with him fifteen minutes before the staff meeting to double check his numbers and specs, and—barring some egregious error no one’s detected, which is highly unlikely because Carey’s very good at his job and when Nicoletti’s got her brain turned on she’s almost as good as B’Elanna and Vorik’s been particularly in the zone lately—they’re at a solid ninety-two percent now, so his report that they’re about as efficient as they can be without more deuterium and that it’s safe to run one public-access holoprogram per holodeck for different six hour periods per day and that they’ll be testing for stability for two weeks before opening holodecks completely had been the big hit of the meeting. Much more popular than the bomb squad initiative or Neelix’s announcement that they’ve got some probably not poisonous mushrooms starting up in aeroponics.

Afterward, they’re all standing around drinking coffee and shooting the shit before Alpha shift starts for real. Well, everybody but Tuvok and his proxy report-giver Deb Lang, who’ve already left. There’s some idle chit chat about what public holoprograms might be considered for rotation when they take the crew survey regarding such, a little ship gossip about an alleged craps game in Cargo Bay 1, speculation about long-range scans for deuterium. And then.

“You seem to have a little extra spring in your step this morning, Captain. Sleep well?” Chakotay says. Janeway clears her throat but to her credit does not even glance at B’Elanna. Janeway says,

“Not especially. Just got a little workout in before shift. Must be the endorphins.”

“I was in the gym for an hour and a half this morning,” Harry says. “Weird that I didn’t see you there.” A little blush creeps up Janeway’s neck.

“I didn’t go to the gym. Just some… body weight exercises,” Janeway says. B’Elanna is too stunned by the audacity of it to continue restraining herself, and she laughs.

“Something funny about that, Lieutenant Torres?” Janeway says with a raised eyebrow, obviously trying to hide her own amusement with the look of mock challenge on her face.

“The idea of it just tickled me, is all. I’ve never seen you do push ups,” B’Elanna says.

“I’m sure there are plenty of things I do quite often that you’ve never witnessed,” Janeway says. If Janeway’s going to flirt with her in front of the entire senior staff, well, that’s on her. She ought to know by now that even if B’Elanna were willing, which she isn’t, she wouldn’t be able to just let a comment like that slide without a rejoinder. B’Elanna says,

“Lack of opportunity rather than lack of interest, I assure you.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Janeway says. B’Elanna’s floored. If Janeway wants to keep their thing a secret, she probably ought to quit doubling down like this, but who is B’Elanna to deny her banter? She says,

“Of course I do. I’ll keep you posted on whether it ever works.” Janeway laughs—that ‘bet your pretty neck I do’ laugh—and then says,

“If you’re trying to goad me into agreeing to a push up contest, it’s not going to happen. I know for absolute fact those aren’t just show muscles you’ve got.”

“Well, you can't blame a girl for trying. I’d probably be more interested in watching your tricep dips, anyway,” B’Elanna says. Janeway again raises an eyebrow, and it’s at this point B’Elanna realizes that both Seven and the Doctor are staring at her with intense, thoughtful expressions. Everyone else seems a little confused but mostly just entertained and intrigued. Chakotay says teasingly,

“There is a lot to be said for a good tricep dip.”

“See? That’s exactly why I wasn’t at the gym. All body weight exercises are fundamentally embarrassing,” Janeway says.

“Only embarrassing if you’re not good at them, Captain. Kinda… stimulating if the form’s perfect,” Tom says. Janeway narrows her eyes at him, but her tone is still jocular when she says,

“How’d I get so lucky as to have an entire crew of miscreants, perverts, and reprobates?” 

“Luck? I thought you ordered us all off the menu that way,” Neelix says. Janeway laughs again, that beautiful, real laugh, says,

“petaQs à la carte. My favorite.” She rolls her eyes and taps at the top of her wrist with two fingers where a watch face would be if she were to wear one. “Time to get to work, I think.” She claps Chakotay on the shoulder, and they walk out together. Harry and Tom start good-naturedly bickering about the merits of different public holoprograms, and B’Elanna takes a step to join them, but suddenly Seven’s fingers are clasping her bicep. She looks over, and Seven’s got her ocular implant crooked, and the Doctor is at her shoulder with an eyebrow up, as well. When she looks back, Harry and Tom are gone, and Neelix is now quizzing Carey about his favorite comfort foods, and they’re exiting together. And now it’s just Seven and the Doctor and B’Elanna in the briefing room. Seven’s still gripping her arm, but she cuts her eyes to the Doctor, says,

“You should report to sickbay, Doctor.”

“And you should report to Astrometrics,” he says. B’Elanna jerks her arm free and says,

“And I should report to Engineering.”

“Not so fast, Lieutenant,” Seven and the Doctor say in unison, and then their respective heads snap to look at each other quizzically.

“Don’t tell me: you both want to speak to me privately,” B’Elanna says. 

“In the interest of medical ethics and confidentiality—” the Doctor starts at the same moment that Seven begins,

“The questions I would like to ask are of an intimate nature—”

B’Elanna can feel a headache coming on. She can guess about what they both want out of her, but she’s not in the mood for it. She’d much rather have started her day on the high of having a very good lay and subsequently having flirted with Janeway in public. But of course she can’t have that. Of course she’s got to have whatever these two meddling nincompoops think they know about her harshing her vibe. But then again, Seven’s not a nincompoop: she’s an extremely vigilant friend. And Seven doesn’t merely think she knows things about her; B’Elanna’s told her enough that she can reasonably extrapolate the rest. The Doctor, on the other hand, is very much a nincompoop. Regardless, B’Elanna’s annoyed and doesn’t know exactly how to excise the tumor of their interrogation, so maybe just getting it over with is the best way. She says,

“Say what you’re going to say, Doctor. And don’t worry about Seven. At the rate we’re going, I’ll be officially designating her my emergency contact any day now.”

He furrows his brow in consternation and then nods, says,

“Well. In that case. I have been puzzling over some conflicting data for almost a week now, and your and the Captain’s display after the briefing seems to have shed some light on this data.” He pauses and looks at Seven briefly and then back at B’Elanna. “But there is something I was wondering if you could clear up for me.” B’Elanna makes a “speed it up, dickweed” gesture. And he continues, “My understanding of Klingon mating practices via direct medical database and indirect literary components indicate that headbutting is not typically an element of foreplay. And yet—”

“Your understanding is correct. I suggest you discontinue your investigation, Doctor. Any injuries sustained have been accidental and incidental, and you have no complaining witness to suggest otherwise,” Seven says, and her voice is so authoritative and menacing. The Doctor swallows, says,

“Erm yes. Quite right.” B’Elanna takes the opportunity, says,

“And my hip’s cleared for full duty?”

“Free and clear, Lieutenant,” he says quickly and overly bright as he slips out the door. Seven follows him, and as soon as he’s out, she posts herself up against the door as a barrier. She then takes up her Borg stance—so straight with hands clasped behind her back—and she looks at B’Elanna, says,

“Is ‘body weight exercise’ a common euphemism for copulation?”

“Are you asking that question because you’re actually curious about innuendo or because you’re ribbing me?” B’Elanna says. Seven stands somehow even straighter, says,

“I am curious about innuendo. And whether the others would likely come to the same conclusion that the Doctor and I have.”

“It’s not a common euphemism. They were all probably a little suspicious that we were flirting so much, but I don’t think there’s a big chance that anybody else put the exact pieces together. Maybe Tom and Neelix, of course. But they usually have such bad poker faces that they wouldn’t have been able to hide looking at me knowingly if they’d suspected,” B’Elanna says.

“I see. But to be clear, the ‘body weight exercise’ engaged in this morning was in fact sex?” B’Elanna can’t lie to her, says,

“Yes, Seven.”

“Were there further stipulations involved? That this would be the last time—that is to say until the next time the Captain decides to take advantage of both your feelings for her and your impulsive nature?” A thought strikes B’Elanna:

“Have you talked to Wildman yet? About how her perception of Megan Delaney has changed after they spent the Civil War scissoring?”

“No. If the Delta Quadrant permits, we will be having dinner tonight. I don’t see how that is relevant. And I don’t know why you’ve assigned them that particular sex act.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“I liked the alliteration. But really, Seven, I think you’re being kind of hard on Janeway. And I’m wondering if maybe the way Katrine treated de Neuf like a piece of meat might be affecting your judgment of the situation. Because the way I’m seeing it is that Janeway’s reluctance to start anything real with me is more to protect both of us than it is because she’s wishy washy or manipulative. And maybe you’re being a little impatient. I mean, isn’t this going more or less according to your original plan?”

“Perhaps you have a point. I will consider that.”

“Can I go to Engineering now?”

“You didn’t answer my question about the stipulations,” Seven says, unmoving. B’Elanna doesn’t really want to say, in accordance with Janeway’s concerns, but she does anyway:

“As it happens, we’re also having dinner tonight. To come up with some kind of framework for how we’re going to proceed.” Seven raises an eyebrow, says,

“That is heartening. However. How much do you think you’ll accomplish before you abandon any pretense of discussion in favor of… scissoring?” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“Not really my thing, honestly. But Janeway can be very persuasive, so. Hard to say.”

“Well. Whatever you do engage in this evening, Qapla’,” Seven says.


	27. Chapter 27

“Seven of Nine to Lieutenant Torres,” Seven’s voice says, whispery, quick, and strained over the comm signal. Strange for Seven to be anything but totally put together and self-assured. B’Elanna and Janeway look at each other, surprised and intrigued. 

They’re sitting close together on B’Elanna’s divan, legs pressed against each other, one of Janeway’s hands twirling a few strands of B’Elanna’s hair, one of B’Elanna’s hands resting on Janeway’s upper thigh. They’re both on their second bourbons, and they’ve spent the better part of the two hours after they’d finished their dinner—which they’d both agreed should be prepared by B’Elanna because she’s not merely more competent than Janeway but actually good at cooking—talking, but not about what they’d originally intended. Instead of talking about how they might navigate their relationship, they’ve swerved so far around trying to avoid that intensely intimate subject that they’ve come about to other just as or perhaps even more intimate subjects: their parents and the Cardassian occupation of Bajor and imposter syndrome and music and formative sapphic crushes.

B’Elanna sets her tumbler of whiskey on the coffee table and reaches over to the arm of the couch where she’d deposited her jacket and taps her commbadge, says,

“Torres here.”

“Keep your voice down,” Seven’s voice says, low and panicked. B’Elanna and Janeway again look at each other. B’Elanna capitulates to Seven’s demand, whispers,

“Ok. What is it?”

“I have excused myself to Ensign Wildman’s lavatory so that I could contact you about this pressing matter. Ensign Wildman and I had dinner and discussed the effects of the Hirogen incident on our respective psyches. But that discussion led to other discussions. And those other discussions led to—. We kissed. Please advise.” It’s been a rush of sibilant sound, and now there’s a taut silence.

“Did you like it?” B’Elanna says.

“Yes,” Seven says.

“Did she like it?” B’Elanna says.

“I think so,” Seven says.

“I guess I don’t see the problem, then,” B’Elanna says.

“The problem is that I have not prepared for this outcome. I don’t know how far either of us is willing to take this, and I don’t know how to proceed.”

“How are you going to figure it out by hiding in the bathroom?” B’Elanna says. “I mean, did you immediately take your tongue out of her mouth and run off like a spooked horse? If so, she’s probably pretty confused and wondering what she did wrong.” Janeway’s gripping B’Elanna’s forearm and almost successfully stifling laughter.

“But she didn’t do anything wrong,” Seven says.

“Go talk to her about this.” There’s another pause and then Seven says,

“Am I… interrupting something? Is that why you are not more willing to help me?” Janeway finally does just laugh, and B’Elanna swats her on the shoulder, says,

“You really think I would have answered if there was anything naked happening?” Janeway laughs again. In the background, B’Elanna can barely hear a soft knock and Wildman’s voice:

“Seven? Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Just a moment, please,” Seven says in a strangled voice. B’Elanna waits a few seconds to be sure Wildman’s gone again, whispers,

“Look, if you really need a minute to get yourself together, go out there and tell her you just needed a second to cool off and while you were in the bathroom I hailed you and need your expertise on an urgent, critical thing and that you’d like to meet up with her later to talk about what happened. Ok?”

“Thank you, B’Elanna. Seven of Nine out.” Janeway knocks back the rest of her drink and sets the empty tumbler on the coffee table, shakes her head, says,

“You two are really something. It’s no wonder three quarters of the crew think you’re an item.”

“Oh? We’re up to seventy five percent now? By Neelix’s last estimate we were at thirty percent. Of course, I guess that’s week old stats.” Janeway cocks her head and purses her lips, says,

“And why would you be keeping track of that information with Neelix, pray tell?” She’s known she’d have to disclose Tom and Neelix’s involvement at some point, but she hadn’t thought much about how. She laughs nervously, says,

“Um. Well. Seven and I are kind of… not exactly dispelling the rumors in order to deflect attention from…” she gestures between herself and Janeway. “And to buy her some time to figure out how she wants to run the Wildman situation.”

“And does Neelix know why you’re not dispelling rumors?”

“Um. Well. There was some intoxication involved,” B’Elanna says.

“B’Elanna.” Janeway’s voice is a razor, cold and sharp.

“It’s my fault. I accidentally got Seven kinda drunk because I didn’t think either of us had any other plans, but then you called me, and she wound up getting even drunker with Tom and Neelix, and—” Janeway sighs, says,

“Well. I guess Seven chose the right confidantes, considering your lavender marriage is still intact in the rumor mill.”

“You took that better than I thought you would.”

“Still in shock. It’ll hit me when I wake up in the middle of the night, and I’ll get mad about it then, probably.”

“Fair enough. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I know that it’s a difficult thing for you as the captain. I certainly had no intention of telling anybody. I might not have even told Seven if she hadn’t been there when you… invited me over.” B’Elanna says. Janeway laughs, says,

“And how were you planning on keeping it from her? Just not mention my name ever again and hope that she would forget your little plan?” B’Elanna shrugs.

“I don’t know. Might’ve told her you shut it down and the plan was off.” Janeway rolls her eyes.

“You’re a lousy liar, and she’s tenacious. I’d rather the three of them know and keep it quiet than have Seven figure it out on her own and hate both of us for conspiring against her.”

“True.” She pauses. “Also. The Doctor knows.” Janeway laughs.

“So, what? He compared our matching injuries and decided that maybe lesbian sex does exist after all, but it’s just completely weird?” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“You’re actually not too far off on that one. Although he blamed it on Klingon sex being weird. On the other hand, before he could get his whole theory out, Seven got rid of him, so there may have been a lesbian angle in there somewhere.” Janeway sighs an exasperated sigh, says,

“Good heavens. And this is the guy teaching Seven how to date. I’d be more surprised if she _wasn’t_ abruptly halting fooling around to frantically call a friend from the bathroom,” Janeway says. Her eyes widen in a sudden thought. “Oh, speaking of. I guess I ought to get out of here if Seven’s going to be here any minute to get talked down from her crisis.”

“Yeah. That’s probably best.” They look at each other, and Janeway looks away, starts putting on her jacket, says,

“We um. Never got anything pinned down…”

“Are you asking me out on another date, then?” B’Elanna says.

“Is that what this was?”

“What else would you call it? You came over with a bottle of whiskey. We had dinner and drinks and talked about personal stuff for a few hours. And then I kissed you goodnight.”

“I don’t recall that last part,” Janeway says, husky and suggestive. B’Elanna cups her face and kisses her, nice and easy. Janeway deepens the kiss, slips her tongue into B’Elanna’s mouth and her hand onto her hip. They melt into each other.

The door chimes.


	28. Chapter 28

Velocity and Parrises squares are technologically not that complicated, but they do have a lot of variables that need regulated by the holodeck and its safety protocols. However, there are plenty of other sports that just require space and some rudimentary equipment. An early initiative in the Delta Quadrant had been to convert part of Cargo Bay One into an all-purpose recreational area with suitable flooring for a variety of activities and to replicate the necessary supplies for common recreational pursuits.

Chakotay, Juliet Jurot, and Mike Ayala are sitting against one wall of the ad hoc gymnasium in Cargo Bay One drinking electrolyte sports drinks, hamming up sulking about their recent basketball loss to Harry, B’Elanna, and Nicoletti, who are sitting against the wall perpendicular to them drinking electrolyte sports drinks and hamming up gloating.

“Harry, what’s it called... like in the Greek tragedies when the hero gets too full of himself and it angers the gods and his pride becomes his downfall?” Nicoletti says.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is hubris,” Harry says.

“Hmm yes, the very one. What was it you said, Commander?” She pauses so that she can effect a deeper, smugly paternal voice. “‘And you’re sure you want to challenge two tall, athletic men and a sporty telepath to a pick-up game?’”

“You’re saying that as if you personally had anything to do with your team’s victory,” Chakotay says, but it’s with his smiling voice, and his gorgeous dimples are on display.

“Exactly,” Ayala says. “Kim’s the fastest son of a bitch on this rig, and Torres has got a vertical leap that’s like at least two feet. What have you got to offer other than a mediocre lay up and some very creative technical fouls?” He’s said it deadpan, but Ayala is always deadpan and hardly ever in a mean way, and he’s got half a smirk about the technical fouls.

“Don’t be too harsh on Sue. She contributed. She’s always thinking such a steady stream of crazy stuff that it overwhelms my receptors, so even if I were unethical enough to use my telepathy to win a basketball game, I would not have been able to get any kind of read on anybody else,” Jurot says. 

They all laugh, and then B’Elanna says,

“And you say that as if Nicoletti doesn’t do that on purpose. She’s our secret weapon.”

“I did start to get a little suspicious when she jumped straight from French verbs that use être to form the past tense to Girl Scout campfire songs to the Starfleet officers’ code of conduct to a graphic sexual fantasy involving a couple of Tellarites,” Jurot says.

“I threw in that last one just for you, babe,” Nicoletti says with a wink.

“You’re disgusting. But maybe not that wrong,” Jurot says. They all groan good-naturedly, except for Nicoletti, of course, who says,

“I might not be a telepath, but I have my ways.”

“Oh no doubt,” Jurot says. “I don’t have to wonder what you would actively think about to distract anybody but me because of course I can read both your thoughts and theirs—” Harry opens his mouth to raise an objection, and Jurot continues, “Oh don’t get your collective panties in a twist. It’s usually an accident because you all think and feel so loudly.” She rolls her eyes and then, “What I wonder about is how you gather your information.”

“A woman has the prerogative to keep some secrets to herself,” Nicoletti says.

“Especially if her methods aren’t always savory and her conclusions aren’t always accurate,” Ayala says.

“Salty because I know about your doll collection back home, hmm?” Nicoletti says. Ayala flinches slightly, but he doesn’t look mad, says,

“I inherited that from my grandmother. Some of them are extremely rare.”

“No one’s judging you, Mike,” Chakotay says.

“There’s nothing to be judged about. It’s perfectly normal to have a collection of valuable fashion dolls and their accessories and accoutrements.” Ayala says, and he hasn’t said it with any kind of defensiveness, just neutral assertion. He continues, “It’s just not something a lot of people know about me.”

“Like I said. I have my ways,” Nicoletti says. And she’s just as neutral.

“If you’re that good, maybe you ought to be in Security instead of Engineering,” Harry says.

“Nah. I like Engineering. And besides, it’s not like I’m the only one who could do equally well in a couple of different departments. It’s been my experience we have a lot of switch hitters on board,” Nicoletti says. Harry cocks his head, says,

“Do you mean polymaths?”

“Well yes, but that’s not also a sexual innuendo, so why would I use it?” Nicoletti says. Jurot and Ayala both groan and throw their empty bottles at her. She expertly bats them away. She probably is literally a switch hitter and a decent one at that. Too bad the space isn’t big enough for baseball. Maybe an intramural league could get organized and have an hour or two of holodeck time a week. B’Elanna’s a very good shortstop. She suspects Tuvok has a good throwing arm. And Seven’s visual acuity and reflexes… She’s putting together her batting lineup before she even can help herself.

“Sue. If you can’t make something innocuous into a sexual innuendo, you’re getting lazy,” Chakotay says. They all laugh, and then he stands, stretches, says, “It’s past my bedtime, kids. Don’t get into too much trouble without me.” He flashes his dimples and exits.

“Past my bedtime, too,” B’Elanna says. She stands, stretches, and tosses her empty bottle into the recycler.

“Your bedtime or your regeneration time?” Nicoletti says suggestively.

And there it is. She’d been waiting for some comment like that. But there’s something about Nicoletti’s knowledge of Jurot’s thing for Tellarites and Ayala’s doll collection that has sat a little wrong with her. Neither of them had seemed terribly shamed by the revelations, but they’d obviously never had any intention of sharing those secrets. How is it that Nicoletti can uncover these personal details about them but she’s got it so wrong about her and Seven? Unless she’s deliberately spreading disinformation because she either knows or suspects what’s really going on and is obfuscating, either for the fun of it or to protect her… She wonders if there’s a way she can test this theory without asking outright. She’d like to explore this a little more, but she’s already late to her meeting with Seven.

“Six to one half dozen to the other,” B’Elanna says noncommittally.

“Let us know if the scales tip,” Nicoletti says.

“I will not, but I appreciate your interest in my personal life,” B’Elanna says.

She heads down the hall to Cargo Bay Two and doesn’t worry about being tailed. One of the most important components of the Seven-rumor-mill plan is being completely indiscreet about being seen with her—it invites talk, and when the truth inevitably comes out, it will make sense that they wouldn’t be cautious because why would friends care about hiding that they spend time together? Tom really is very smart about a lot of things.

But she’s in the wrong mindset for this discussion. She’s got to realign herself, reacquaint herself with the facts and the role she’s supposed to play in thirty seconds or so. Seven and Wildman had kissed; she and Seven had discussed strategies for how to proceed; Seven had returned to Wildman’s quarters afterward. And now they’re about to debrief about what had happened then.

Cargo Bay Two is different from the last time she’d been there. She hasn’t been down here since before the Hirogen deal, maybe not even since she had helped install Seven’s alcove. The alcove now has just a few lights blinking here and there, obviously not at full capacity. To the right of it there’s a partition—like an industrial version of a Chinese curtain—cordoning off a corner of the room.

“Seven?” B’Elanna says, having not yet spotted her. The accordion door of the partition flutters open, and Seven is there. She says,

“You are late.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Got caught up in a basketball game and lost track of time.” Seven nods curtly, says,

“You may enter.” And she disappears behind the partition. B’Elanna follows. 

Behind the partition, there’s a cot outfitted with regulation Starfleet bedding and a locker that’s been pried from a bank of lockers somewhere else that’s got one Naomi Wildman drawing affixed to it by a magnet and a bookshelf with a mixture of PADDs and paper books and a couple of what appear to be Vulcan meditation candles and a high table with two mismatched stools. On the table there’s a glass vase with a half-wilted bouquet of weird Delta Quadrant flowers, a pitcher of ice water and two tin cups, a half-empty bottle of some kind of liquor, a bowl of weird Delta Quadrant fruit, and a partially disassembled old-timey radio with parts and tools strewn around it. 

Seven’s standing at the side of her alcove that the partition is butted up against, manipulating some controls. B’Elanna’s not sure whether this is a cool space that’s unique and oddly homey or if it’s depressing and strange. She accidentally lets slip,

“Is this your quarters, then?”

“Yes. I requested regular crew quarters, and the Captain was very contrite and said that they were all already assigned, some at double occupancy, so my current options without too much ‘juggling’ as she called it were that I could either negotiate with a crew member to become their roommate, or I could create my own quarters in Cargo Bay Two. I chose the latter. While I do believe I could find a sympathetic crew member to allow me living space, I would not feel comfortable imposing my very large regeneration chamber upon anyone, especially because I use it only intermittently but it is essential that I have it close at hand.”

“Huh. Well. For what it’s worth, I don’t blame you. That’s zero to a hundred real quick. From being a Borg drone to being an individual with a whole cargo bay to yourself to having to navigate some asshole leaving their dirty socks in the living room. A girl can take only so much at a time,” B’Elanna says.

“Exactly.” Seven turns from the console and places her hands behind her back. She’s not rigid, though. It’s more her parade rest stance than her full Borg atten-hut. “Would you like refreshments?”

“No, thanks. You mind if I sit, though?”

“Please do,” Seven says. B’Elanna crosses to the table and sits on the stool closest to the disemboweled radio. She picks up a tiny flat head screwdriver and starts poking around, careful not to really move anything, just looking at what Seven’s got going on. She says,

“So. How’d it go last night?” She looks up to see that Seven has taken a seat on the other stool. Seven’s poured a cup of water and is staring into it, the tips of her ears red. B’Elanna can’t stop herself from a little ribbing, says, “I didn’t get laid. Did you, at least?”

“No,” Seven says. And the red at her ears has spread to her neck. She’s got a pretty neck, too, now that B’Elanna looks at it from this angle. But Nicoletti had been right about her not being into blondes.

“That all you got for me, Of Nine? I thought you wanted to talk.” Seven looks up from her cup, pierces her with her icy—but perhaps a little wounded—gaze, says,

“I am embarrassed. My actions last night were inefficient and illogical and caused Ensign Wildman distress. And, as the expression goes, ‘to add insult to injury,’ you were right that I should have simply spoken with her about my concerns because when I returned and was candid with her about how uncertain I was, she did not treat me as though I were a hostile foreign anomalous entity. She treated me like a person. She was kind and understanding, and she assured me that she was also uncertain. We did kiss again after that. And we both enjoyed it. But we both agreed that we should approach further physical interactions with caution and open communication.”

“Best possible outcome,” B’Elanna says. Seven stares into her, says,

“Even though I didn’t ‘get laid’?”

“There are a lot of things that are more significant than that.”


	29. Chapter 29

Thursday’s comfort food lunch is supposed to be a couple of slices of ham with a mustard and brown sugar sauce, macaroni and cheese, green beans with bacon and onions, and a gelatin fruit salad. But of course, when Neelix explains all the caveats and substitutions, it ends up sounding more like an elaborate art installation than a meal. But B’Elanna chances it anyway because she’s seen a few other crew members with plates, and everything looks decent enough, and nobody’s gagging.

The gelatin fruit salad tastes exactly like a similarly dubious concoction one of her grandmother’s friends had always brought to church potlucks, so she supposes Neelix has achieved comfort food in some kind of way although it’s kind of a Pyrrhic victory considering that it technically probably reminds plenty of people of home but it’s a dish only a truly insane person would crave. She’s trying to figure out what fruits have been added and if they’ve come from cans or from the aeroponics bay or what. There are shreds of something that emulate the taste and texture that would have been coconut in her grandmother’s friend’s recipe, but that’s as far as she’s gotten in her analysis yet.

“I can’t tell if you’re actually enjoying that or if you’re just completely zoned out,” Janeway’s voice says. B’Elanna looks up, and Janeway’s standing there at the edge of her table with a full tray and a smile.

“Neither. Focusing on analyzing ingredients. Honestly, I’d appreciate it if you distracted me from it, Captain,” B’Elanna says. Janeway places the tray on the table, slides into the chair across from her, says,

“Thanks for the invite. I didn’t have a plan B.”

“I’ve never known you to have one. Why start now?” Janeway starts cutting her fake ham into bite-size pieces, doesn’t look up from that activity as she says,

“I’ve had plenty of alternate plans. You must not have been paying attention.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“Having alternate plans handy because you can see many different outcomes and have prepared for all of them is not in any way the same as going into something half-cocked, losing, and then moving on to a half-improvised shittier plan. Plan Bs are for lesser women.” Janeway dips a bite of not-ham into the maybe mustard sauce and looks at her with that smile that’s genuine but only half joking, says,

“Not sure how I feel about that. It’s quite a compliment but also… it does make me wonder just how Machiavellian you think I am.” B’Elanna laughs, says on the fly,

“No greater than forty percent. Probably around fifteen percent on any given regular day.” Janeway swallows her bite of not-ham and then bounces her fork between her fingers in contemplation. B’Elanna tentatively digs into the almost-macaroni-and-imitation-of-cheese. She places the forkful of mystery pasta into her mouth—it’s mostly just chewy and salty, nothing to write home about either positive or negative—and then regains eye contact with Janeway. Janeway says,

“Tell me, Lieutenant. Does this theory of yours about my propensity for cold, detached strategy involve merely command decisions, or does it extend to my personal life, as well?” B’Elanna isn’t quite sure whether this is a real question or flirtation, but it’s the type of thing to be treated gingerly regardless. If it’s real, Janeway might be in the mood to debate, to get philosophical and contemplative and sentimental. Sure, B’Elanna’s only seen that side of Janeway in brief flashes, but she suspects it’s a side that would like to come out more than it does, is always looking for a reason and an opportunity and the right circumstances, and she doesn’t know if she’s up for the challenge—not only because she’s overworked and mentally and physically tired but also because she doesn’t know if she’s ever been up for the challenge, that maybe she’s not equipped to be that person for Janeway. If it’s flirtation, she’s looking more for clever wordplay than an honest answer but will still be looking for grains of truth in the banter. She weighs her options and goes with an honest but suggestive,

“I don’t have quite enough data to judge. I’d probably have to spend more time with you to figure it out.” Janeway hums, says,

“Not your best line, but not your worst, either.” A more neutral response than B’Elanna had anticipated—it doesn’t really fit with either scenario she’d been working with, and she’s again thinking about her own impulsivity in relation to Janeway’s several-steps-ahead maneuvering. Perhaps forty percent had been a rather conservative estimate. But she’s got to do her best to keep up. She says,

“Does it at least earn me a passing grade?”

“Maybe with a little extra credit,” Janeway says. They lock eyes again, and there’s a little spark there, a little smirk around the bite of ham Janeway’s just taken.

“Just so we’re on the same page, is this an extra credit situation, or might this be more of a quid pro quo situation?”

“In this context, there’s not really a discernible difference.”

“Exactly what I wanted to hear.” They share another look, and then Janeway clears her throat, says,

“As you know, Thursday is my night to have dinner with Chakotay. But maybe afterward you could come over, maybe bring a little tequila, and we could finish that discussion we were having a few nights ago.” 

“I don’t know if that’s wise, Captain.” Janeway cocks an eyebrow, seemingly genuinely questioning, maybe a little worried, says,

“Oh? You’ve changed your mind about—”

“Of course not. It’s just that. We all know what they say about what tequila does to Earth girls.”

“I don’t think I’m familiar with that particular rumor, actually. What about it is so troublesome to you?”

“Far from troublesome. Just um… not very conducive to meaningful discussion. According to rumor, tequila makes Earth girls’ clothes fall off. I figured it probably wasn’t much of a concern with a Borg. You, however, are a very classic Earth girl.” The angle of Janeway’s eyebrow remains the same, but the quirk of her mouth is different, the lilt of her voice accordingly different as she says,

“I’m willing to take the risk if you are.”

“Not a lot of risk involved for me. I was just trying to be considerate.” B’Elanna takes a bite of the ham now but really only to show her teeth. B’Elanna watches Janeway watch her slide the meat off the fork with her central incisors and her tongue.

“Maybe you were or maybe this whole conversation has been a psyop to plant prurient ideas in my head for later.”

“The thing about a psyop is that it’s much easier to pull off when the target already has the inclination and all you’ve got to do is give a little strategic push.” Janeway laughs, says,

“You’ve just got an answer for everything, don’t you, Torres?”

“And a nonanswer for even more. I’ve learned from the very best, after all.” Janeway huffs, says,

“Careful, Lieutenant. You’ve just admitted that you’ve spent enough time with me to learn my tactics, contradicting your previous statement.” B’Elanna turns her plate a quarter turn so that the green beans-ish are directly in front of her. She says,

“I don’t agree with your interpretation. But even if I did, you’re implying that you’ve deemed our time together sufficient and that further contact is unnecessary. So. There’s no need for us to get together to… talk. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t agree with your interpretation, either, and you know very well that’s not what I want,” Janeway says, her face very serious. B’Elanna doesn’t know what to do with that seriousness. She thinks again about whether she’s up for this challenge, whether she can handle being looked at like that for any extended period of time, whether she even knows what that look means. As much as she wants to ask exactly what Janeway means by that, pin her down on it and then have the rest of the day to stew about it and figure out her own feelings a little better and have something not stupid to say tonight, it’s not a safe location for such candidness. And even if it were a safe location, here’s Nicoletti with her tray, saying,

“Hiya Captain, Chief. Room for one more?” Janeway’s gaze lingers on B’Elanna for a second, and then she’s got her diplomat smile on, says,

“Of course.” Nicoletti looks at them in turn with an unreadable yet still somehow assholish gleam in her eye, and then she takes the seat on the side of the table perpendicular to both of them.

“So. You two are looking pretty solemn. Something going wrong with the deuterium search, or is the ham just that bad?”

“Maybe you just have trouble distinguishing the difference between solemn and focused. Have you not been studying your facial expression flashcards lately?” B’Elanna says, and she tries to make it as friendly as she can, but she’s a little annoyed and off-balance, and it might have come out a touch cutting. But Nicoletti laughs, says,

“To my credit, absolutely nobody has a flashcard set that nuanced. But really, how edible is the ham?”

“On a scale of fake meat from zero being that ultimate chicken fry last week, five being decently prepared tofu, and ten being preternaturally good black bean burgers, I’d give it a solid six,” B’Elanna says.

“Lieutenant Torres is a harsh critic. I’d give it an eight. But that’s with the sauce,” Janeway says. 

“Fair point. I haven’t tried the sauce yet,” B’Elanna says. 

Nicoletti opens her mouth for a reply, but Janeway’s commbadge chirps:

“Chakotay to Janeway.” Janeway sighs but then taps her commbadge and says,

“Go ahead.”

“You’re needed on the Bridge. That guy you duped into trading for leola root is back,” Chakotay’s voice says. Janeway sighs more deeply.

“Geez,” B’Elanna says. “That was a whole explosives emergency ago.” Janeway rolls her eyes but smiles, says,

“What does he want? A second helping?”

“I don’t know. He says he’ll talk only to you. He says it’s a very private matter,” Chakotay says, and B’Elanna can hear the suppressed laughter in his voice.

“Great. I’m sure the next five hours will be riveting,” Janeway says.

“Maybe you ought to hit sickbay beforehand and get a prophylactic analgesic for the headache you’re going to have later,” B’Elanna says.

“Not a bad idea, but this guy’s probably already fit to be tied that I’m not talking to him within seconds of his request,” Janeway says.

“I’m not sure he’s quite fit to be tied yet. He’s somewhere between hot under the collar and casting a kitten,” Chakotay says.

“I’d better get up there before he gets to the mad as a wet hen stage. Janeway out.” She sighs deeply and rolls out her shoulders. Then she drums the tabletop with her knuckles, says, “Well, ladies. Perhaps a different lunch on a different day.” She stands and takes her tray to the recycler. She turns back for a moment, and she and B’Elanna make eye contact a final time before she leaves.

“I don’t envy her job,” Nicoletti says. 

“Me, neither,” B’Elanna says.

“Too bad we don’t have the resources to send the poor gal on a three week vacation to get drunk, get laid, and get a massage.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“In that order?”

“I’d trust her to set her own itinerary,” Nicoletti says. She takes a bite of green beans and then says almost convincingly off-handedly, “Of course, I suppose you don’t need a vacation to do any of those essential relaxation activities, just a free evening once in a while. And who’s to say she doesn’t have a regimen already in place? Just be nice if she didn’t have to fit it all in between disasters.” 

“You think she does? Have a regimen already in place, that is?” B’Elanna says, also almost convincingly off-handedly. Nicoletti shrugs, but she’s smirking. She says,

“I don’t know, Chief. Do you think she does?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.” B’Elanna shoves some macaroni into her mouth to appear nonchalant.

“You’re a bad liar. But I don’t necessarily blame you. If I had a big bad Borg girlfriend, I might not want it getting out that I think quite a lot about what the Captain gets up to in that bathtub of hers.”

“That’s quite an extrapolation. And a projection, too, no doubt,” B’Elanna says, blushing only a little.

“An extrapolation, maybe. A projection, no. I have a good relationship with my mom, so I’m not usually that into women in positions of authority. She is hot, though. I’ll give you that.” B’Elanna’s about to get mad, but then she remembers that dig about Nicoletti’s facial expression flashcards and figures she deserves this one. And then she puts those two things together. They know each other and trust each other with their vulnerabilities. Nicoletti’s the one she usually talks to about stuff that’s bothering her and vice versa. She’d somehow never thought about her as a confidante about this whole thing because— Why hadn’t she? Oh, yes. At the beginning she had been so ashamed of herself and mixed up about the Hirogen shit that she’d been too depressed to really talk to anybody and then had accidentally bullied Seven into being her friend. Two tears in a bucket, mother fuck it, she’ll just go for it:

“Sue. Be straight with me. What do you know?” Nicoletti cocks her head and sighs. She lowers her voice, says,

“That night at the meeting. I don’t know if nobody else noticed or if they were all too weirded out that you and Seven were there together or if they’re all just politely ignoring it and sweeping it under the rug as a one-off anomaly, but you reeked of—” She cuts her eyes dramatically to Janeway’s vacated seat and then back to B’Elanna. “— _her_ perfume, and I immediately remembered all that looking at each other and touching each other you two had been doing that afternoon working on the holo emitter and figured somebody finally made a move. So when you left, I thought some misdirection might help you out in case you wanted to keep it secret for a while. And since Seven’s got a better nose than I do she was probably in the know and would see the logic of having a decoy and wouldn’t get offended. And then there’s always so much speculation when people get stuck in a turbolift together, so I kind of upped the ante on the you and Seven thing to be safe. I didn’t mean any harm by it. I hope—”

“Don’t start apologizing. It doesn’t look good on you. And anyway, you’re a genius. It’s fun having my own Minister of Propaganda.”

“You know, I could probably do better yellow journalism for you if I knew some more details…”

“Oh come on. All the details are probably more exciting when left to the imagination. Your imagination especially,” B’Elanna says.

“Yeah well. All I’ve got to do is wait it out until the Bolian tequila is gone and you move on to the reserve stash of Andorian gin. A couple of those in you, and even if I’m not there you’ll be calling me begging to tell me stuff.”

“When have we ever had Andorian gin together?”

“That’s what we were drinking when you were telling me about those telepaths who wanted to remove your aggression and give you shock treatment and an ice bath or have you locked in a room with yellow wallpaper or whatever fucking medieval torture/hysteria cure they were going to do to you.”

“Oh boy. That was—”

“At least six Hirogen simulations ago,” Nicoletti finishes for her. They look at each other, and B’Elanna says,

“Maybe we could all use that three week vacation.”


	30. Chapter 30

Leg day is way past due. B’Elanna hasn’t had an actual good leg work out since before that hip injury like two weeks ago, and so she’s just stepped out of the turbolift into the corridor on Deck 3, and she’s solidifying in her mind exactly what she’s going to do. She’s waffling back and forth about whether she wants to go with sumo squats or just the machine for hip adductors. No, she’s tired of machines. She’ll use a resistance band. She’s more than halfway there when she hears her name behind her. She turns and leans against a bulkhead and waits to be caught up with.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention since Deck 9, but you kept dodging around corners and ducking into turbolifts. Couldn’t tell if you were avoiding me or oblivious…” Harry says.

“Sorry. I was in my own little world, I guess. Why didn’t you just call me?”

“Because I knew if we weren’t face to face where you could see my puppy dog eyes you’d find a reason to tell me no.” He flashes her a grin and bats his gorgeous long eyelashes.

“Tell you no to what, exactly?” she says. She’s always suspicious when he plays up his cuteness.

“We haven’t been able to practice in ages. I’m getting antsy.”

“You can practice just fine on your own in your own room,” she says.

“I know. But it’s not the same. And, well—” he pauses and seems to be realigning his words.

“Well what, Starfleet?”

“Well. I worry about you. I haven’t seen a lot of you lately other than that one basketball game that I’m pretty sure Sue forced you to attend. You’re always working or in the gym, or doing clandestine stuff with Seven. I know the rumors about you two being a couple are total bullshit, so I’m assuming you’re working on some top-secret project for the Captain—classified and need-to-know and probably very dangerous or maybe something that she doesn’t want to get everybody’s hopes up about prematurely. And don’t get me wrong: I’m not trying to pry for details. It’s none of my business. But it’s got to be a lot to have on your plate. And, well. Everybody needs a creative outlet. I really thought you enjoyed hanging out with me and jamming with me. I thought it was— I don’t want to be presumptuous. But I thought it did you some good. I mean, I’ve always been in musical groups. And there’s a certain amount of satisfaction I can get alone, but there’s really nothing else like making music with somebody else, creating something together, harmonizing together, to really make you feel like you’re in a community. I guess… I can understand if it’s not that important to you, and I don’t want to badger you into anything, but it means a lot to me to do music as a social activity. It’s not that music reminds me of home so much as that it is home. A form of home that you can keep with you.” He shrugs. “Sorry, that’s probably stupid—” B’Elanna bites the inside of her cheek so that she doesn’t tear up. 

“It’s not stupid. But shut up about it anyway, all right?” She clears her throat, then, “So, what? Did you replicate me some rinky dink shitty electric keyboard or something?”

“Uh no. Worse. The public holoprogram tonight is that weird Canadian bar Niagara Fell, and they’ve got a very old upright grand in the back corner. I know it’s painted purple and probably just decorative but I thought maybe—”

“Harry. That’s going to be so sucky. I tried playing that thing one time when nobody corporeal was around. The action is so gummy that I’ll have no chance of ever being on beat. And it’s an entire half step flat across the board. Not to mention that place is always so noisy. The canned music over the speakers, the dinging of the slot machines, the rushing of the waterfalls, all the yelling at the arm-wrestling tournament.”

“What better place to just blend into the noise and not call too much attention to ourselves?”

“Right. Because nobody’s going to notice you swinging your horn around.”

“We’ll wear all black. Be stealth.” He flutters his eyelashes again at her. She rolls her eyes, says,

“Fine.” He smiles, says,

“I was prepared for a no, so this is a big win for me.”

“Let’s roll before I change my mind,” B’Elanna says. She’s not going to, of course. She’s missed him and she’s missed playing music with him. And she can’t stand to disappoint him. Plus she figures it’ll take about fifteen minutes for him to get frustrated with not being able to hear himself over the rest of the din that he’ll admit she had been right, and they can be more intentional about getting together to practice and figure out a better venue for next time. They’re walking back toward the turbolift, but Harry stops and turns toward her, says,

“I was thinking about maybe bringing the jazz standards fake book and just messing around instead of trying to do anything that takes a lot of concentration on technical skill. Like a just-for-fun thing.”

“Not a bad—” 

Fuck and a half. She’s got to quit having walk and talks on Deck 3, especially if she’s going to consistently not pay attention to where she stops on these walk and talks because once again she’s at Janeway’s threshold. Except this time she’s not talking about anything confidential and embarrassing. This time the embarrassing part is that Janeway’s door slides open automatically because apparently it has yet to be reprogrammed back to how it’s supposed to be—that is, to not respond to her biosign. Past Harry’s shoulder she can see Chakotay and Janeway in their Thursday-night-casual-dinner civvies sitting on opposite ends of the couch, deep in conversation. They don’t seem to have noticed the swish. She grabs Harry’s elbow and hustles him down the hall. She manufactures a cough to cover her stumble, says,

“Not a bad idea. Why don’t you go get your horn and the music, and I’ll go change into something that isn’t gym clothes, and we’ll meet in Holodeck 1 in ten?”

They’ve reached the turbolift but haven’t entered it, and Harry is silent and looking at her contemplatively. And then he looks down the hall at where they’d just been and then back at her. They both step inside.

“Yeah. But. What was that just now? That was the Captain’s quarters, wasn’t it? And her door opened?”

“Must be a glitch. I’ll call Tuvok about it while I’m changing.” He narrows his eyes, scoffs,

“You’re a bad liar. This has something to do with you and Seven’s Section 31-lite operation, doesn’t it? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

He starts babbling then about which jazz standards he’d like to go over tonight, but B’Elanna’s still reeling a bit that Janeway hadn’t reprogrammed her door and also that Harry is so convinced that she’s engaged in a black-ops mission. Maybe Tom’s finally got him sucked into all his 1950s fantasy stuff but what Harry’s internalized is not hot rod cars and monster movies on cathode ray tube televisions but Cold War anxiety about covert experiments and espionage.

They part ways on Deck 9 to go to their respective quarters, and B’Elanna wonders briefly what songs she’s just agreed to with her mechanical nods and hums. She’ll find out soon enough and none of them are that offensive to her anyhow, so she’s sure it’ll be fine. What remains not fine is that Janeway hasn’t reprogrammed her door. Does that mean something? Or has she just not gotten around to it? Has she been secretly hoping B’Elanna might just accidentally pause long enough on her way to the gym to trigger the door and then waltz in and ravish her? Is reprogramming the door a nonisssue to Janeway because she trusts B’Elanna enough to use it only when she’s been invited? It’s probably option E none of the above. Probably an oversight and nothing to overthink.

Making up accompaniment from just a list of chords and following Harry’s tempo and dynamics changes is honestly a better distraction than leg day would have been. It’s the perfect mix of muscle memory, strategic thought, and pure enjoyment. They’d started with a few warm-up basic I-IV-V songs, and they’re now in the final chorus of a classic I-vi-IV-V ballad, and B’Elanna’s hit her stride with a dramatically spare bass and triplets in treble, and she’s tuned out her surroundings except for Harry’s melody line so well that she could almost believe that the canned music over the speakers and the arm-wrestling yelling and the slot machines’ dings aren’t mucking up the air. The song ends, and she’s about to suggest they try something more complicated—something with some augmented and diminished chords maybe—but before she can get a word out, there’s clapping behind her. She turns to look at Harry, and his face is just as confused looking as she feels. They both turn in the direction of the sound.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that it’s Neelix at the front of the small crowd of maybe a half dozen crew members and about the same number of holographic people. The applause fades, and it’s now apparent that B’Elanna hadn’t been simply tuning things out. Those things really had been turned off so that this audience could better listen to the Kirres Combo. B’Elanna had never truly signed off on the name as she thinks it’s incredibly stupid, but that’s what Harry calls them.

Even in the dim light, she can see Harry’s blushing, and he’s sputtering out,

“Thanks everybody. That’s um. The end of our set—”

“But you just got started!” Neelix says. “Just a few more? Drinks on me?” B’Elanna had not intended on drinking this evening as she had wanted to be completely lucid and alert for her discussion with Janeway later, but this is sort of an unnerving situation having so many people looking at her so expectantly and Harry could certainly use a little liquid courage and he hates to drink alone and maybe if she shows up at Janeway’s completely sober she’ll be all stiff and spiraling about the door thing and Harry’s undercover project theory and Nicoletti’s propaganda campaign. Yeah. Maybe a drink would be best. She says,

“Sure. Just a few more and drinks on you.” She surveys the crowd and foresees a lot of requests in her future, so she flips through her mental catalogue for what liquor won’t mess with her motor functions too much. Wine is all the way out. Coordination is the first thing that goes with wine. Tequila will make her want to go join the arm wrestling tournament instead. Beer and she won’t be able to concentrate. So. Bourbon probably. If she’s clumsy and stupid drinking whiskey, she’s had way too much whiskey. But before she can qualify, Neelix is gone, and Harry is leaning over and whispering,

“Why did you agree to this? I thought you didn’t like it publicly known that you do this stuff?”

“Just because I don’t want to participate in a ship-wide talent show or something else big and stupid that takes a lot of practice and invites a lot of scrutiny doesn’t mean I’m ashamed or anything. It’s just been my private hobby for a long time that was a special thing just for myself. And because pretty much all cultures value music, I didn’t have to fight my mother about taking lessons, so it was something that was Klingon-Human neutral, you know? But. What you said about home kind of got to me.” His face lights up with a megawatt smile. He says,

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anybody that you’re an old softie.”

“As if anybody would believe you anyway,” B’Elanna says, shoving his shoulder and grinning back. She really has missed him.

Neelix has returned with two identical drinks in Collins glasses. They’re kind of a murky amber with a little froth at the top and a lot of ice, and B’Elanna’s initial tentative sip discerns whisky—this is a Canadian bar, so it’s probably whisky rather than whiskey although the difference is more in spelling and geography than it is in taste and application—and some kind of citrus juice and some kind of liqueur and some kind of soda that is probably ginger ale. A little sweet for her taste but definitely within the parameters she hadn’t been able to voice before Neelix had disappeared. She and Harry both down a good half of their respective drinks and then are back at another I-vi-IV-V ballad, but it’s a very well-known one that most of the crowd can sing along to. 

By mystery whisky drink two, Neelix has devised a lottery system for what songs the Kirres Combo would be compelled to perform. Several easy ones and another round of drinks go by without incident, and now B’Elanna’s navigating Betazoid harmonies and structure as Jurot drapes herself against the piano and sings in her tinny, warbly mezzo. She’s a little surprised Betazoid music even has lyrics, especially the kind of wildly nonsensical puns suffusing this song. Maybe it’s like a joke song or something or in some specific genre that is about saying weird stuff out loud but maybe telepathically communicating something else—musical subterfuge of some kind or just irony? It’s too much to think about as she’s attempting to follow what Harry’s doing because he seems to know at least the basics. She looks over at Jurot, and she’s staring at her with a very knowing smirk on her face—not as though she’s making fun of her, but as though she’s enjoying her confusion and can’t wait to explain.

But that’ll have to wait until another occasion. Just as the song ends, her commbadge is chirping:

“Janeway to Torres.” Everybody groans. A hail from the captain can mean many things, but whatever it means specifically, it means a halting of previous activity, and everybody knows that.

“Sorry. Gotta take this,” B’Elanna says with an especially apologetic look cast toward Harry and slips off to the bathroom. She props herself against the door, giddy with whisky and the sound of Janeway’s voice. “How may I help you, Captain?”

“I’ve changed my mind about the tequila. Chakotay brought a bottle of pinot grigio, and I had to drink quite a bit of it to endure how concerned he was about you and Seven’s romance. And I hate to mix my liquor.”

“Yikes. You sure you still want me to come over? You’re probably exhausted—” Janeway’s voice is lower in pitch when it comes across the line:

“Don’t you know what they say about what white wine does to Earth girls?”

“Anecdotally,” B'Elanna says.

“Would you like to know empirically?” Janeway says suggestively.

“Sample size is statistically insignificant for a formal study. But I’d hate to pass up the opportunity for first-hand observation.”

“Not to mention the opportunity for hands-on research,” Janeway says even more suggestively.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

“Make it a snug ten. Janeway out.”

B’Elanna takes a deep breath, feels her lungs expanding and her back ribs pushing against the solidity of the door. This woman will kill her, but according to Klingon romance novels, it’s one of the only honorable deaths outside of battle, so there’s that she guesses. She exits the bathroom.

Harry’s now sitting at the bar chatting with Jurot, and she puts her hand on Harry’s shoulder, says,

“Next Thursday, same time, same place?” He grins.

“Yeah. I’d like that. At least until holodecks are fully open.” She nods and turns to go but he says, “Hey. Thanks for tonight. I had fun.” 

“So did I. But don’t tell anybody that, either.”

“He won’t have to,” Jurot says as she gestures with her drink toward farther down the bar, where Neelix is gesticulating wildly and Kristine Fernandez is feverishly drawing on a napkin. “They’re designing merch for the Kirres Combo. Won’t be long before half the crew’s wearing t-shirts with your face on them.” B’Elanna groans and rolls her eyes, says,

“Tell them to come up with a better name for us while they’re at it.” Jurot laughs, and Harry pouts. “The only reason you like it is because you came up with it, Starfleet.” Jurot snaps her fingers, says,

“Now there’s an idea. The Starfleet and Maquis Combo. S&M for short.” She waggles her eyebrows. 

“Let’s go ahead and leave that one on the cutting room floor, too,” B’Elanna says.

“You’re just no fun. No wonder you’re ducking out to go talk to the Captain about plasma or duty rosters or whatever instead of staying and figuring out how to play Chell’s favorite Bolian drinking song,” Jurot says. Even three whiskies in she can see this as the ploy it is. Jurot’s trying to set a trap for her to think about what she’ll really be doing with the Captain so that she can catch a telepathic whiff of it. Although it’s not that weird for a senior staff member to get a hail from Janeway this late, it probably had been weird to Jurot to feel the excitement emanating off her about it. If that’s how Jurot’s telepathy works, anyhow. B’Elanna’s just guessing. Maybe she’s just paranoid. But to be safe, she empties her mind and says,

“I know all about that drinking song. It’s got like ten verses and each is in a different time signature. That’s more mentally taxing than any engineering problem Janeway could want to iron out with me off duty.” Jurot’s looking at her sidewise and then shrugging. She opens her mouth to reply, but Harry says,

“I wasn’t looking forward to that one either. I’d love to tackle it. But I want some practice first. Or at the very least to hear it sung by somebody with any sense of pitch.” Jurot turns to Harry, says,

“Why don’t we go out to the Falls and I’ll grant your wish?” His ears go bright pink, and B’Elanna gives him a thumbs up and slips out of the holodeck.

It’s not the snuggest ten she could’ve managed, but it’s more important to her to have given her evening a satisfactory conclusion, had made sure she and Harry had been cool, hadn’t just disappeared leaving disappointment and suspicion in her wake than it is to fit into some arbitrary timeline. It’s only 2100, after all. And if Janeway can’t respect that she has her own stuff she’s doing that sometimes can’t be wrapped up as quickly as the Captain can whistle for her to come running, maybe it’s not worth it. She doesn’t know where this resentful thought has come from. She doesn’t really feel that way. Well, she would feel that way if she believed that’s how Janeway was treating her, but she doesn’t believe that. Janeway had said she’d call after dinner and she had, and then their flirting had escalated, and B’Elanna had been the one to first mention a timeframe. Her brain is trying to sabotage her. She’s never been with somebody she trusts so completely, so she’s trying to fuck it up because it’s foreign. Love is sort of an autoimmune disorder for her: her body produces it but then her body also attacks it because it’s a perceived threat. But this isn’t love, of course. It’s just some overblown crush with some mommy issues thrown in and alien-induced existential weirdness by way of alternate persona Brigitte and insane sexual chemistry and the feeling of safety and security and being known and genuine enjoyment and intellectual stimulation. Definitely not love.

She’s standing at Janeway’s door, extending her arm to ring the chime, and the door opens before she can do so. Oh yeah. That. Her biosign thing. ghuy'cha.

The door has opened, and the common areas visible because of the open door are dark and vacant. She just stands there looking. She’s been invited, and she’s been granted access, but she still feels strange about it.

Janeway’s voice, clear and distinct but coming from another room—and B’Elanna knows from experience the only other room is the bedroom:

“Quit hemming and hawing at the door before somebody sees you.”

B’Elanna enters then and begins walking toward the bedroom. She’s just crossed into Janeway’s boudoir when there are hands at her shoulders and lips at her lips, and she’s being shoved against the wall, her mouth invaded, her legs spread, her blouse ripped open. Janeway’s nude save for an untied satin robe, and she can feel the heat of her and the softness of her, and she can see even in the dim light the flush at her chest and the intensity in her eyes. Anecdotally she knows that wine typically makes Earth girls amorous, but this seems a little more than just that, especially considering that her eyes are not unfocused and glassy as is typical with wine. It’s not that she doesn’t like it. She does like it. And she wants more of it. But that’s the thing. Even if she’s not ready to admit to herself what exactly it is, she wants more of it in a more significant way, and she doesn’t know whether Janeway wants the same or different type of more. She doesn’t know if it makes much of a difference. She’s prepared for implosion on several discrete axes and doesn’t expect anything long-term but her own heartache. But there’s something in the desperation and ferocity of Janeway’s hands and lips and teeth and body undulating against her that gives her pause, compels her. She’s got to do her due diligence.

She grips Janeway’s hips under the robe, skin on skin, pressing in hard with her fingernails to still her movements. She forces eye contact, says,

“Kathryn. I want to mark you.”

“I want you to.” Janeway’s got one hand in her hair and the other on her neck, and her body is flush against her.

“You don’t. You’ve had too much to drink, and you’d agree to anything to get laid just now.” Janeway throws her head back as she laughs. B’Elanna can’t help but watch that neck stretch out. But Janeway’s face shoots back up, and they’re looking at each other.

“Oh.” Janeway’s face is suddenly contrite. “You’re serious.” She removes her hands from B’Elanna’s body, steps back, ties her robe. “B’Elanna. I. I don’t want you to think I’m using you.”

“You can use me however you want. I just want to be sure we both know what that means.”

“And if we don’t?” Janeway says in a quiet, tremulous voice.

“Somebody’s got to figure it out sooner or later,” B’Elanna says.

Janeway sits on the edge of her bed, runs a hand through her hair. She looks up at B’Elanna, her eyes dark and intense. She says,

“I know that the zygoma is typical, but the clavicle is also common in Klingon tradition and would be my preference.”


	31. Chapter 31

“Let me guess. You still think I’m dicking you around,” Janeway says.

B’Elanna hasn’t moved from standing against the wall and is staring at Janeway, whose spine had straightened and whose face had gone cold and hard when she hadn’t gotten a response to her previous statement. B’Elanna hadn’t been able to think anything—especially nothing she could voice adequately—except that Janeway couldn’t mean it, and she certainly couldn’t have said that without sounding like a whiny idiot. The clavicle bite is not one that gets a lot of publicity, so for Janeway to have known about it in the first place she would’ve had to put in a little effort to research Klingon mating practices. Surely she’d said that because she wants to continue having sex with her and wants to make sure to show she’s willing to meet B’Elanna halfway and had mentioned the collarbone specifically because it’s more discreet and therefore practical for what they’ve got going on. Surely she hadn’t picked it because of the overt Klingon implications of its being the more intimate and sacred spot, representing a more cerebral bond based more on intellectual and emotional compatibility than physicality and instinct, although each of those elements do play a role in any marking. B’Elanna’s mulling all this over as she watches Janeway watch her. She’s got to say something before Janeway shuts completely down. She can see it in her eyes that she’s about to pull some Captain maneuver—some terse but vague repudiation and then the boot.

“Kathryn. I never thought that,” B’Elanna says, low and clearly enunciated. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Janeway says. B’Elanna wants to be empathetic. She doesn’t know exactly what’s going on in Janeway’s brain, but she’s probably just as torn up about the whole thing as she is. There are a lot of variables involved on both sides, after all. But that doesn’t stop a hot lick of anger from shooting up her chest. She says,

“Yeah? And how have I given you that impression? You assume I’m just so impulsive and masochistic and starved for affection that I’d let you manipulate me over and over even though I don’t trust you because you’ve thrown me some scraps here and there?” Janeway stands and begins stalking forward, eyes blazing. She says in her low, dangerous voice, the one she uses when she’s about to pilot the ship into a binary pulsar,

“How dare you say that. How dare you imply I don’t respect you. You are one of the most intelligent, vibrant, no-bullshit women I’ve ever known, and it’s offensive to me that you refuse to acknowledge that I’m in love with you and keep framing this in a self-loathing narrative in which you paint yourself as some helpless, hapless victim of my wiles. I’m not that seductive and you’re not that stupid. Quit treating me like I’m a femme fatale and get real. I want you, and I want all of you, not just this part of you you’ve been giving me that’s convinced of and okay with the erroneous idea that I’m going to fuck you until I’m bored or too many people know about us and then discard you without a second thought.”

Janeway’s standing directly in front of her now, and she can’t hide from the intense blue of her eyes. There’d been a lot revealed in that, and she hasn’t processed all of it, is pretty sure it might take months or years to really process it all. She does know that Janeway’s assessment of her had been pretty accurate, and she’s ashamed of it. But she’s more concerned about Janeway’s confession of love. She can feel her own pulse thrumming in her throat and temples in anxious yearning and anticipation and comprehension and fear and elation and confusion. But Janeway’s standing in front of her, expecting her to say something in response.

“Ok,” B’Elanna says.

“‘Ok’? And what’s that supposed to mean?” Janeway says.

“It means I concede. It means you’re right.” B’Elanna pauses. “It means I want all of you, too. And that I want to give you all of me.”

Janeway steps closer, traces B’Elanna’s top ridge with a fingertip, says,

“And you’re not just letting me have my way because you think you can’t say no to me?”

“You’re not that seductive and I’m not that stupid,” B’Elanna says as she unties Janeway’s robe, snakes her hands inside and places them at her waist. Janeway suddenly has her hands on either side of B’Elanna’s face and is looking intently at her.

“B’Elanna. Make no mistake. You’re not stupid in any way.” Janeway kisses her, soft and sweet and tender. It’s the same tenderness that B’Elanna usually can’t stand to look at, but she’s not looking. Her eyes are closed. So she’s just feeling it through the gentle caress of lips and tongue, and that’s worse. That’s worse and better, considering what she now knows about Janeway and about herself. B’Elanna slides her hands up Janeway’s flanks. She relishes the shudders and shivers, but her goal is to reach her shoulders and remove the robe, which she does, and when she does, she claims Janeway’s mouth hungrily and ferociously. Janeway moans as B’Elanna’s teeth graze her bottom lip, and her hands are in B’Elanna’s hair now, fingernails grazing scalp as she grinds her hips against B’Elanna’s thigh and kisses her and kisses her, sloppy and deep and frantic. Finally B’Elanna pushes at her shoulders, and Janeway stumbles back half a pace, obviously disoriented, her eyes wide and searching.

They look at each other, and B’Elanna maintains eye contact as she shrugs out of the blouse Janeway had furiously unbuttoned earlier in the evening, unclasps her bra and pulls it off, draws her jeans and underwear down her legs and steps out of them and her tennies in the same swift motion.

They’re both nude, standing inches apart in Janeway’s bedroom, staring at each other. 

“I don’t know how this is supposed to work,” Janeway says. “Do you just— Or do I lie down— Or is it spontaneous—?” She averts her eyes, says, “Damn it all. Fucking mark me already before I burn this place to the ground.” B’Elanna’s first instinct is to laugh, but she figures that would be counterproductive. She’s laughed before in a similar situation and it had almost proved fatal. But Janeway does typically appreciate the unexpected if it doesn’t undermine her authority. B’Elanna drops her weight and leads with her right shoulder, scoops Janeway up in a fireman’s carry. Janeway cries out in surprise but allows B’Elanna to take her the few steps to the bed and deposit her there. B’Elanna follows soon after, straddling her and then kissing her. Janeway’s hips are bucking up to meet hers, and Janeway’s kissing her back fervently, so she figures she hadn’t miscalculated about this particular thing.

B’Elanna then cups Janeway’s breasts, gently, reverently, and starts a legato pattern dragging her fingertips over flesh—from where breast meets rib up and up to skimming areola to teasing nipple. It’s slow and measured, and each centimeter that B’Elanna takes gets her so much wetter. She likes the feeling of Janeway’s body, especially likes that Janeway’s body is responding to her touch, but what really turns her on is that she’s allowed both of the former, that she alone has access to Janeway’s private pleasure. 

One of Janeway’s hands shoots up and clutches at B’Elanna’s sternocleidomastoid. Janeway’s nails dig into B’Elanna’s neck, and they kiss again. B’Elanna drags a hand down and slips it between their slick sweaty bodies, descends. A finger traverses wet folds and then circles clit. Janeway moans, says,

“Please. I don’t need you to say you love me, but I need something concrete.”

B’Elanna bites her—hard, penetrating, sharp, intimate—at collarbone.


	32. Chapter 32

Seven stops walking near a holographic representation of a particularly ugly old fishing boat on the wharf outside of Sandrine’s and goes to put her hands behind her back but then seems to reevaluate the move and tentatively places her hands in the pockets of her slacks instead. She’s been experimenting lately with regular clothes for short periods, and today she’s in a very dumb outfit that only a tall, hot blonde could pull off: pleated gray polyester slacks and supremely ugly loafers and an ill-fitting striped oxford shirt. 

B’Elanna’s never totally believed the temperature-regulation or whatever the Doctor had come up with to justify the skin-tight bodysuits. She keeps meaning to suggest doing her own scan of Seven’s Borg systems sometime to see if she can help her come up with something more comfortable and functional to deal with the alleged issue, but she seems to always get sidetracked by something else. Currently the sidetrack is that she’s just told Seven about what had happened the previous evening and that when she’d awoken this morning, the Captain had been gone, no note, no nothin’. Just gone, and they hadn’t spoken all day, hadn’t run into each other in the mess or the two times B’Elanna had made up a reason to go to the Bridge. 

Seven had silently listened to the whole story. And now she’s standing here in the artificial moonlight staring at her. A long silence passes, and then Seven says,

“Did you at any point in the evening explicitly acknowledge that her feelings were reciprocated?”

“I mean, I did mark her. And we did have sex for like three hours straight,” B’Elanna says. Seven blinks, says,

“That doesn’t answer my question.” B’Elanna runs a hand through her hair, groans, says,

“Ok, fine. I just. Wouldn’t want to say anything that’s not true. And I don’t know how I feel exactly. I’ve never been great at this sort of thing.” 

“I see.” Seven pauses and cocks her head, says, “It seems that either the Captain is giving you space and time to contemplate your feelings, or she believes you are now the one dicking her around.” All day long B’Elanna’s tried to chalk it up to Janeway’s being busy with that leola root guy whose ship had left their sensor field only about two hours ago. Sure, she’d thought of the options Seven had suggested, too, but she’d buried them under work and other excuses. And of course she hadn’t just done the sensible thing and hailed her, set up a time to talk. Because what would there have been to say? “Hey thanks for last night, but I know that as soon as I admit to both of us that I’m also in love with you, you will realize the awful mistake you’ve made and that I’m not good enough for you and you will grow to hate me for it.” But maybe Seven can give her a different perspective she hadn’t thought of. She says,

“And what do you think?”

“As you know, I have often questioned the Captain’s motives and methods. And I have been critical of her actions in regards to your relationship, among other things. But this most recent development has cast all of the previous interactions you’ve described and that I’ve witnessed in a slightly different light. If I had more time to adequately collate the information, I could provide for you a more informed opinion. However, with the information I do have and my initial analysis of it, I think your previous hypothetical defenses of Janeway’s behavior have been close to the truth. And therefore, I think you have acted reasonably in response, especially considering your own perceived inadequacies and the Captain’s now more obvious insecurities.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of words to say that you were wrong,” B’Elanna says.

“I was not wrong. My logic was sound, but my conclusion was flawed because I didn’t have all the relevant facts.” B’Elanna rolls her eyes, says,

“Tomato, tomahto.” Seven furrows her brow and then,

“I would be interested to know precisely when she reprogrammed her door to respond to your biosign. She has presumably not changed the programming since her initial modification, so that might give us more insight into a timeline of her state of mind. I have been doing copious research into the nature of human love, and for rational individuals who do not subscribe to the frivolous idea of ‘love at first sight,’ it is an emotion that typically takes months or years to develop. Given the depth of affection the Captain has expressed toward you, it logically follows that it has been building for some time. Perhaps since you bonded over theorizing about how to escape the event horizon of a quantum singularity very early in Voyager’s journey through the Delta Quadrant.” B’Elanna doesn’t ask how Seven knows about that incident; she knows Seven goes through ship logs—and when something interests her the personal logs that reference the events in the ship logs to provide more information. It’s annoying and invasive, but at least there’s not a lot of need for exposition.

“Maybe,” B’Elanna says. “I’m pretty interested in the door thing, too. But I don’t know if I can trust your intel. You told me once that Janeway made a habit of banging one-offs, including but not limited to Amelia Earhart, but she told me herself she hadn’t gotten laid since Earth.” Seven looks at her inquisitively, perhaps apologetically, says,

“I didn’t mean to deceive you. I followed the evidence I had.” She pauses, purses her lips. “I suppose in this instance I was genuinely wrong. Upon further consideration, it seems the Captain has dicked around everyone but you.” B’Elanna laughs. The whole thing’s absurd. Never once in her life has she had this kind of nutty discussion about a lover or a superior officer, and definitely not a superior officer who’s simultaneously a lover, which has never happened unless she counts that time with the TA of her Federation Microeconomics course. Which she doesn’t. Much more cut and dry and transactional, as befitting a microeconomics teacher, she supposes. But still, what’s Seven getting at, exactly?

“I’m not that special,” B’Elanna says.

“Objectively, no. But subjectively, to the Captain, you are. She engages flirtatiously with almost everyone she encounters, but she indulges herself further, physically and emotionally, with only you. If our mutual and individual data sources are correct, that is,” Seven says. They look at each other. It sounds a lot like Seven’s implying Janeway’s lied to her, but the look on her face doesn’t support that. The look on Seven’s face is—well, it’s sympathetic. It’s kind. It’s inviting.

“Fucking A, Seven. It’d be a lot easier if I were just a body to her. I’m not sure I know how to do something real.” They look at each other again. Seven reaches out and sets her hand on her shoulder, very stiffly, but her hand’s warm, and B’Elanna is comforted by the idea behind the gesture more than the gesture itself. 

“We’re all learning how to be. We may be at different stages, but we are all, at all times, learning how to exist,” Seven says. Seven’s right, and she’s not sure if it’s one of those times she likes Seven’s being right.

B’Elanna feels guilty suddenly about dominating this conversation and this whole friendship, really, with her own nonsense. Sure, she’s got her own issues that prevent her from honest connections, but is her own shit worse than having a large chunk of her life stolen from her by the Borg? “It’s not a misery competition,” Wildman had said. They both have their own miseries, and they might as well help each other navigate those miseries as best they can. But then she also remembers what Janeway had said about Mark and Wildman’s similarities. She’s not like Mark and Wildman. She’s an impulsive jerk rather than a stable nice person. But maybe Janeway’s at a different place in her life where a stable nice person isn’t what she needs. And maybe Seven’s in a place in her life where she needs the stable nice person of Wildman in one regard and the impulsive jerk of her in another regard. 

“Yeah,” B’Elanna says. “We’re all learning how to be.” There’s not a lot to say other than that. And even if there were, she wouldn’t have the words for it just now. She walks a few paces down the wharf with her hands in her pockets, too, and then says, “You wanna see what’s happening inside Sandrine’s?”

“It’s not imperative, but I am curious,” Seven says.

“Me, too,” B’Elanna says. Seven nods at her, and they walk side by side toward the entrance of the bar. 

“Do you think we would be more convincing if we held hands?” They look at each other, and Seven’s eyebrow is crooked.

“Oh. You’re joking,” B’Elanna says.

“Perhaps I need more practice.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“Or perhaps you’re a bad audience,” Seven says. B’Elanna does laugh at that.

Seven holds the door open for her, and they both walk in to a pretty full bar. It’s Friday night, after all.

At the pool table, Chakotay’s lining up a shot—fourteen to side pocket from a wonky angle. Janeway’s at his shoulder, whispering advice. At a couple of high tables close to the action, there’s Harry and Tom and Jurot trading strategy notes and Neelix and Wildman and Nicoletti discussing the particular geometry involved in this move. The Doctor is standing at the other end of the pool table, some holographic babe draped on his arm, and he’s chalking his stick absently as he watches Chakotay. What a group. B’Elanna hadn’t been prepared for all of them together to collectively be looking at her. One or two she might be able to stand. She can only hope that Seven will pull another fake headache or something and get them out of here sooner rather than later. For now, she’ll have to roll the hard six.

“Room for a few more?” B’Elanna says to Nicoletti.

“Always, Chief,” Nicoletti says with twinkling eyes and a knowing smirk. “And if you can’t find enough chairs, I’m sure there are plenty of available laps.”

“Lieutenant Torres and I are both significantly heavier than we appear to be because of our respective enhanced physiologies. Even if the laps are available, they may not be amenable,” Seven says.

“And even if they’re both available and amenable, you haven’t even bought me a drink first,” B’Elanna says. Nicoletti laughs, and Wildman blushes, and Neelix both laughs and blushes. Seven doesn’t skip a beat, says,

“That is probably because Lieutenant Nicoletti believes supplying you with an appropriate beverage is within my purview.”

“On the nosey!” Nicoletti says.

“In previous, similar social settings, I have observed your drinking beer. Is that what I should order for you, B’Elanna?” Seven says. 

“Need something a little stronger than that tonight, I think,” B’Elanna says.

“I will comply,” Seven says with a nod and then turns toward the bar. Before she can get anywhere, Nicoletti stands and stretches, says,

“I need another round. And maybe I can provide some insight into what the Chief might want to imbibe.” She grabs Seven’s tricep and gallops off.

There’s already a vacant fourth chair at the table, so B’Elanna drags an extra from a neighboring table so that Seven will have a place to sit when she returns, and then she sits next to Nicoletti’s temporarily empty chair. Wildman leans in and lowers her voice, says,

“How early do you think is too early for Seven and I to cut out? I was kind of hoping to have a little alone time with her tonight…” B’Elanna can’t remember what exactly Wildman knows and doesn’t know, but at the very least, B’Elanna knows Wildman knows B’Elanna and Seven aren’t a real thing.

“More of an art than a science, I think,” Neelix says, also in a low voice. Wildman rolls her eyes, says,

“I’m about done with this farce. It was cute at first. Fun, even. But now it’s just annoying. Look, Chief. I don’t know who it is that you’re involved with, and I don’t know why Seven feels it’s her duty to obfuscate on your behalf, and I super don’t know why Harry talks about you two as if you’re part of the KGB or SEAL Team Six. But I’m over it. Are you not over it?”

“Babe. I’ve never been not over it. I only ever signed off on it provisionally. I had thought it all would’ve been over way before now, and you wouldn’t have had to have gotten in on it at all,” B’Elanna says. Wildman huffs.

Janeway appears now, standing close to the table. She says,

“Chief. A word? Privately?”


	33. Chapter 33

“I was starting to think you were avoiding me, Captain,” B’Elanna says, sitting on the sink ledge in the ladies’ room of Sandrine’s. Janeway has just finished checking the stalls for eavesdroppers and is now propped up against the next sink over. She fiddles with the top button of her cream-colored silk blouse, hums, says,

“I have been.”

“Oh,” B’Elanna says. Janeway turns, stares toward a Le Chat Noir poster on the back of the door, says,

“You know my schedule. I didn’t think you’d show up here.”

“Because you thought I’d be avoiding you, too?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m not.” Janeway looks at her then, says,

“Why not?” B’Elanna almost laughs at that, but she doesn’t, throws out instead,

“Do you want me to?”

“Of course not.” B’Elanna reaches over and skims her fingertips up Janeway’s tricep. Janeway shivers, and they lock eyes; then Janeway continues, “But I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Oh shut up. We are both just two sides of the same idiot coin, aren’t we?” B’Elanna says. Janeway flinches and then rolls her eyes as a bad cover, and B’Elanna wraps her fingers around Janeway’s upper arm, pulls them a little closer together, says, “I’m not going to promise you anything except that I’m going to be bad at this. But uh. I’m not avoiding you because.” She cuts her eyes to the door and then back to Janeway’s face. She hops off the sink and tightens her grip on her arm. “Because I’m in love with you, too.” Janeway scoffs,

“And here I thought you’d have to be waterboarded to say something like that.” B’Elanna laughs, says,

“I’ve got an extra lung, darlin’. That’s not the most effective torture for me.”

“Enhanced interrogation, I believe they used to call it,” Janeway says with a smirk. B’Elanna tugs at her arm and stares into her, dead serious, says,

“Torture’s more accurate, though. And the only torture that works on me is seeing that sad look on your face.”

“So there it is then.” She stiffens, pauses, says archly, “I don’t want your pity.” B’Elanna grabs Janeway’s other arm now, too, growls,

“Damn it, Kathryn. That’s not what I meant, and that’s not what this is.” She leans into Janeway and kisses her, hard, and Janeway kisses her back, just as hard. It’s a deep, full-tongue-and-teeth kiss, kind of mean with some spite and anger and fear thrown in against the affection and desire. B’Elanna releases Janeway’s arms so that she can enclose an arm around her waist and with her other hand unbutton the top two buttons of Janeway’s blouse to slither in under the fabric, push her bra strap out of the way, trace the bite mark on her clavicle with just the ghost of a fingertip. She pulls back from the kiss, but just enough that their lips aren’t touching but their noses are barely and they’re breathing each other’s air, and she’s still circling the indentations of her teeth from last night rhythmically with the scantest brush of her index finger. Janeway’s panting, clutching at the sink ledge with white-knuckled hands. B’Elanna says further, “I once accused you of telling yourself pretty lies. But I’m not so sure anymore. And maybe you’re a good liar and I’m a bad liar, but regardless of skill level, maybe at baseline your lies are just as stupid and ugly as mine.” Janeway’s rigid body relaxes slightly, and she raises a hand to caress B’Elanna’s face, and she says,

“So maybe we ought to quit lying altogether.” B’Elanna retracts her hand from under Janeway’s blouse and places it neutrally on her hip, leans into the hand cupping her cheek, says,

“Yeah. I agree.” She turns her head so that she can kiss Janeway’s palm. That’s all she’d meant to do originally, but once she’s there with the heat and smell of her skin so near and so potent, she takes a notion and runs her tongue down along the veins of her wrist.

“B’Elanna,” Janeway says, low and ragged. The hand that’s not cupping B’Elanna’s face is bunching up a fistful of B’Elanna’s sweater a few inches up from ilium. “Not here.”

“Ok,” B’Elanna says. But neither of them move away from each other. Janeway rests her hand on B’Elanna’s neck, and they stare at each other.

“It’s a little early to leave without getting any funny looks. So. Will you—” Janeway looks away, clears her throat. “—come sit at my table?”

“Only if you promise not to rebutton your blouse.” Janeway laughs.

The door opens, and Janeway scrambles to put some distance between them, but she’s already up against the sink. B’Elanna sees that it’s Nicoletti and doesn’t bother.

“Ope!” Nicoletti says. She raises a hand and cups it at the side of her face as a blinder. “I don’t see anything. I haven’t heard anything. I don’t know anything.” She enters a stall. B’Elanna smooths down Janeway’s blouse and steps back, says,

“Bullshit, Sue. You came in here to check on us because people were starting to talk.” Janeway looks at her with an arched brow and then throws her head back in exasperation, presses two fingers to her temple.

“Like I said,” Nicoletti calls back. “I didn’t see anything, and I don’t know anything. The Captain and the Chief Engineer are in the little girls’ room having a completely normal private discussion standing a normal social distance apart. Might want to check your lipstick before you leave, though.” B’Elanna leans to the side to see her face in the mirror. She hadn’t been wearing lipstick when she had arrived, but she is now, very haphazardly.

“Good call,” B’Elanna says as she reaches behind Janeway for a paper towel. Janeway sighs and turns around to do the same. They catch each other’s eyes in the mirror, and there’s a question in Janeway’s. B’Elanna shrugs, whispers, “Don’t look at me. Apparently your perfume is very distinctive.”

“Hey! No whispering or my report might change!” Nicoletti says.

“Your report will not change, Lieutenant,” Janeway says. She’s reapplying her lipstick now, and Nicoletti emerges, elbows her way between them so she can wash her hands. 

“Understood, Captain,” Nicoletti says to Janeway’s reflection. Janeway opens her mouth to say something, closes it, looks at B’Elanna’s reflection and then Nicoletti’s, says,

“You seem to be in on all the relevant gossip, Susan. What do you know about the quilting group?”

B’Elanna steps back farther so that Nicoletti can reach the paper towels. She leans against a stall with her hands in her pockets, watching the other two in the mirror.

“Uh well. Not much, Captain. They kind of treat me like a heathen since the only thing I know how to do is crochet and even with that I only know like one knot. Of course, I was just going for the mojitos anyway, so maybe they smelled that on me more than my lack of ability or inclination for textile arts. But it’s Mondays at 1930 in science lab 4, and anybody’s welcome. If you’re thinking of joining, I’d suggest bringing a snack to share. That earns you immediate bonus points, and it’s how I skated by for two whole months before I was found out. Lil smokies are always a big hit with that crowd,” Nicoletti says.

“Valuable information. Thank you,” Janeway says. Nicoletti nods and then turns to B’Elanna, throws her balled up paper towel at her. B’Elanna catches it in one hand and tosses it into the trash can. Nicoletti says,

“Your ball and chain’s probably getting lonely while you’re dicking around in the bathroom.” 

“My ball and chain is probably doing just fine staring into the limpid pools of Samantha Wildman’s eyes,” B’Elanna says.

“I know it’s a joke, but I don’t like this ball-and-chain terminology,” Janeway says. 

“Don’t worry, Captain,” Nicoletti says. “We’d never call you that. You’re definitely Torres’s Old Lady.”

“Absolutely not,” Janeway and B’Elanna say in unison.

“Fine. By the time you’re ready to tell everybody, I’m sure I’ll have thought of something better,” Nicoletti says. Janeway and B’Elanna shoot each other a skeptical glance—both about telling everybody and about Nicoletti’s prowess at coming up with a lady-friend epithet that isn’t derogatory. Nicoletti holds the door open, and they all file back out into Sandrine’s proper.

The pool table now is Baytart and Parsons squaring up, and the previous opponents are sitting at a booth. B’Elanna watches as Janeway crosses directly to that booth and sits next to the Doctor, across from Chakotay. She watches as Chakotay rakes his eyes over Janeway, as he notices the unbuttoned blouse, as he focuses on newly exposed freckles and the suggestion of more supple flesh that is barely covered. Janeway’s kept her end of the bargain, and B’Elanna’s kind of mad that it’s not benefitting her yet, has only so far stoked her jealousy. She sits between Nicoletti and Seven and starts on the drink they’d decided on for her. It’s a bloodwine spritzer, and it’s not as disgusting as she would have thought it might be, and it burns down her throat.

Neelix is trying to make conversation about a new segment he’s thinking about introducing to “A Briefing with Neelix” that would be a showcase of crew members’ hidden talents. He’s already got a juggler and a tarot card reader lined up. He says, very excitedly,

“I couldn’t persuade you to come on and demonstrate your piano playing, could I, B’Elanna? I know most of the crew is human or human-adjacent and so already had some knowledge about it, but I was totally floored when I saw you at that beast. I really thought it was an instrument exclusive to the holodeck. Some made up thing that only holograms interacted with.”

“That makes sense if you’d never seen anyone else play it,” Wildman says. She turns to B’Elanna. “I wouldn’t recommend being on the show, and I doubt you would want to anyway. But. I was wondering if maybe you’d be willing to give Naomi lessons.” B’Elanna laughs.

“You’re right. I don’t want to be on the show.” She turns to Neelix. “Sorry, pal, but I’m not that kind of girl.” She turns back to Wildman. “I’m not unwilling. But Lydia Anderson might be a better fit. She’s patient enough to cajole twelve mostly tone-deaf knuckle draggers into performing serviceable three-part harmony to Prixin carols. And she definitely plays just as well or better than I do.”

“But she’s kind of a bitch,” Nicoletti says.

“I don’t go in for gendered insults, but I can’t say that Sue’s fundamentally wrong,” Wildman says. B’Elanna laughs again, but when she looks up, Janeway’s staring at her from across the room. It’s time to deliver on her end, and unfortunately she hasn’t spent the interim finding a good excuse to leave. She says,

“Excuse me a minute. I want to go say hi to Chakotay.” It’s a stupid lie. Everyone at the table knows it. Well, Wildman might have believed her except that everyone else so obviously doesn’t and also it’s such a non sequitur.

“Oh,” Wildman says. She looks at Neelix, who can’t hold her gaze. She looks at Nicoletti, who smirks. She looks at Seven, who straightens and says,

“You are correct to believe that Lieutenant Torres is not being completely honest.” They stare at each other for a moment, and then Seven says, “You are also correct in your apparent supposition.” B’Elanna rolls her eyes, huffs, says,

“You caught me. I told Janeway I’d join her at her table, and I don’t have any intention of going back on my word.” They all look at each other. And then B’Elanna stands and walks toward Janeway’s booth. She slides in next to Chakotay.

“Hello, all,” B’Elanna says. The Doctor looks at her with raised brows, and Chakotay looks at her rather skeptically, as well. Janeway looks at her the same old way, says,

“Hi.”


	34. Chapter 34

They’d almost gotten caught.

They hadn’t been doing anything actually incriminating, just rather suspect for a Captain and a Chief Engineer. 

They’d run into each other in the mess hall when B’Elanna had just gotten off Beta. They hadn’t seen much of each other since that evening at Sandrine’s—and the night they’d spent together in Janeway’s quarters after they’d staggered their exits from Sandrine’s, of course. 

They’d collected some deuterium from a comet the next day, and B’Elanna’d been working doubles to get it all processed. It had been the sludgiest, dirtiest deuterium she’d ever seen. Impurity city. 

But there had been a lot of it, and she and Seven and Harry had come up with a pretty good distillery for it. They’d made a couple of them and outsourced a lot of the hard labor of it to the Science girls, with Wildman running point, and Harry and B’Elanna and Seven spending a lot of hours cooped up together with the deuterium intake manifold.

They had all worked fine together. Seven had been as bossy and demanding and terse as ever, but B’Elanna had found herself laughing more at her ways than getting annoyed. 

She knows now Seven doesn’t do the weird stuff she does because she thinks she’s better than everybody. She does it because she knows her own abilities and confidently asserts what she believes to be correct. She also now knows that Seven can admit when she’s wrong about her assumptions, so that had helped. She’d even had to put out a few fires between Seven and Harry—Harry who’s usually so chill and accommodating, getting in petty squabbles with Seven. She’d had to laugh at that.

Of course, Harry had chalked her new understanding of and defending of Seven up to their alleged clandestine activities for the Captain. She’d tried to explain to him that she and Seven are actually just regular friends, no secret agendas, no romance. Just. They hang out and talk and do activities together. 

He’d narrowed his eyes, touched the side of his nose with his index finger, said, “Don’t worry, Maquis. I don’t ask questions so you don’t have to answer them.” 

When B’Elanna had told Seven about that development, she had been genuinely tickled by it and had suggested in an absolute deadpan that they give each other spy code names, and B’Elanna had laughed although she had suspected Seven kind of actually had wanted to because she’d been hanging out with Tom lately and had been very interested in a Cold War holonovel he’s writing, which also explains Harry’s whole deal. B’Elanna had said, 

“Your real name already sounds like a code name.”

“Insufficient. My new designation for our covert activities will be Ms. Cassowary. Your new designation will be The Pink Tiger,” Seven had said.

“What in the actual fuck? How are we supposed to drop any of that in a casual conversation with a straight face?”

“I am dicking with you, Pink Tiger.”

“That nickname better not stick. I know I’ve mellowed out quite a bit over the last five years, but I’ve still got plenty of broken noses left to hand out. You feel me?”

“Understood, Lieutenant,” she’d said in a fair approximation of conciliatory, but she’d had a smirk in her eyes.

Pretty soon after this conversation, she’d wandered into the mess hall, hoping there’d be some leftovers from dinner. Neelix is finally off his “comfort food” kick and is back to making bizarre Delta Quadrant concoctions. But at least they have all the correct ingredients in them, not not right substitutions that render what had started out comfort food into bizarre Delta Quadrant concoctions with extra steps.

She’d come out of the galley with a plate she’d found in the fridge with a sticky note with her name and reheat instructions on it pasted onto the cellophane covering it. The sticky note had not provided a name for this dish, but it had appeared to be a benign enough pot pie type operation. She’d looked up from contemplating it and spotted Janeway at a booth in her pajamas, her elbows propped on the table, her chin resting on her folded hands. She’d slid in next to her.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” B’Elanna had said. Janeway had closed her eyes and leaned her head onto B’Elanna’s shoulder, hummed, said,

“Same to you.”

“How would you know? You’re not even looking at me.”

“Oh shut up and eat.”

They’d sat like that as B’Elanna had choked down about half of whatever it was she had been eating. Her human grandmother had always said casseroles and stews and pot pies and chili, any dish with a lot of ingredients whose flavors are supposed to work together as a unit really, are best upon reheat because they’ve had time to settle. Abuela Inés had never tried Delta Quadrant cuisine à la Neelix, though.

She’d slid her plate away from her across the table and then put an arm over Janeway’s shoulders.

“That was disgusting,” B’Elanna had said.

“I know. I had a couple of bites of it six hours ago, and I’m still not over it.”

“You wanna come back to my place and cleanse your palate? I’ve got a stash of zesty garlic kosher dills. I don’t offer them to just anybody, you know.”

“Tempting. But I’ve got an early morning.”

“You’re not avoiding me again, are you?”

“Not deliberately. Just busy. And you’re even busier. Don’t want to be an extra burden to you.”

“Well, we’re about done with this deuterium. Maybe we can schedule a time to burden each other this weekend some time.” Janeway had chuckled, said,

“I’d like that. Sunday? After tennis with Tuvok?” 

“Sure. Come pick me up, and we’ll find something to do. I think Tom’s got a movie night set up in Holodeck 2. We can sit with Seven and Sam as a cover.”

She had sat up and run a hand through her hair. 

“Hmm. A double date? Gross. Maybe we'll think of something better in the meantime. I do need to get to bed though, before I fall asleep right here in your lap.” B’Elanna had stared at her—had realized then that Janeway had been very obviously exhausted. She’d said,

“We didn’t just happen to run into each other, then. You figured I hadn’t eaten yet and came here to see me.” Janeway had shrugged and then given her a naughty grin.

“I do a lot of things just to happen to run into you. For example, when have you ever seen me actually working out in the gym rather than just milling around waiting to flirt with you?” B’Elanna had laughed. Now that she’d been invited to think about it, she hadn’t been sure she’d ever seen Janeway doing anything real at the gym other than maybe some stationary bicycle or rowing machine.

She had taken Janeway’s hand, turned it over, laid out her forearm on the tabletop, run a finger from inner wrist to inner elbow. Goosebumps had sprung up at her touch. Maybe Janeway would reconsider burdening her tonight, after all.

“You’ve got very robust veins for somebody who fakes all her workouts trying to pick up chicks.”

“I don’t fake all my workouts. I really am very good at push ups, even though you’ve never seen me do them.”

And that had been when Chakotay had come in, and B’Elanna had jumped up, scrambling to take her plate to the recycler, hoping he hadn’t seen or heard anything, and Janeway had stood quickly, too, given a brief weak wave, and hustled out.

She’s still thinking about the whole encounter waist deep in holographic swamp water the next evening.

It’s not an official strategy meeting, just conveniently a social gathering with all the people who know, except Janeway and the Doctor. Janeway would probably like it, but she’s on shift. The Doctor, however, would hate it.

It’s a program Nicoletti’d dreamed up based on her childhood, an amalgamation of all the elements she’d loved most—noodlin’, shitty diners with both preternaturally good saltwater and freshwater fish specials but bad pretty much anything else, airboats, trashy temporary carnivals with rickety rides and the best cotton candy, an RV park with a really fun bike trail and NPCs with a lot of crazy stories to tell everybody.

They’re all currently engaged in noodlin’. Well. Nicoletti and B’Elanna and Tom and Seven are in the water trying to find catfish. Neelix is painting Wildman’s nails on the dock, and they’re intermittently watching them.

B’Elanna had agreed to try hillbilly hand fishing as a way to distract herself, but it’s not working, and she ought to tap out. The holodeck safeties are on, so she won’t lose any fingers over it, but still, she’s not present. And neither is Seven, she notices. She’s kind of just standing in the water, staring at nothing in the direction of the mangroves.

“Hey,” B’Elanna says quietly so as to not scare the fish they haven’t found yet away. She waits to be acknowledged. It doesn’t happen. “Hey! Ostrich or whatever!” she whisper shouts. Seven turns toward her, puzzled at first, and then her eyebrow crooks.

“It is Ms. Cassowary, but I do appreciate that you remembered it was a ratite of some kind.”

“My grandmother had an emu, so I knew it wasn’t that one.” Seven laughs. “Head down to the diner with me so we can talk?” B’Elanna says. Seven nods, and they both slither onto the dock and towel off.

“Where are you two going?” Neelix says.

“Getting a pitcher of iced tea for everybody,” B’Elanna says, fully intending on doing that, as well.

“And having a secret chat,” Wildman says, rolling her eyes. It’s a joke-not joke. She knows Wildman is getting frustrated with the whole charade and doesn’t begrudge her. She’s about to say that she can come along, but Seven says,

“Yes. I find it helpful to have ‘secret chats’ with Lieutenant Torres when I need advice about private matters that I am embarrassed to share with anyone else but you and her, not because you are not helpful but because B’Elanna’s bluntness translates more easily into concrete solutions in my Borg brain than your inexhaustible kindness and gentleness. I hope you aren’t offended; that hasn’t been my goal whatsoever.” Wildman sighs, says,

“I know, Seven. I know all that. And you know I love that you have a good friend you trust to confide in. I’m just tired and. Well. I heard a particularly disgusting rumor this morning that’s been haunting me all day.” Neelix grimaces. Apparently he’d heard it, too. If it’s sufficiently disgusting, Nicoletti will tell her about it, so she doesn’t ask. But Seven says,

“I assure you my Borg-enhanced digits do not function that way, and even if they did, I wouldn’t utilize that technology in that way. It would be well outside of intended usage, and therefore no safety data on the practice would be available to study beforehand.” Wildman and Neelix blanch, and B’Elanna laughs a flabbergasted snort.

“Okey dokey, then!” B’Elanna says. “Let’s go get that iced tea!”

When they’re safely out of earshot, Seven starts up:

“Thank you for recognizing that I required an intimate conversation and offering to provide the opportunity for one.”

“You’re welcome. I need one, too. You go first.” 

They walk a few paces in silence, and then Seven says,

“I believe Ensign Wildman and I are ready to have intercourse.”

“Oh. Um. Good.”

They walk another few silent paces.

“So what’s the problem?” B’Elanna says.

“We don’t have an adequate location to engage in sexual activities. She doesn’t want Naomi to be required to sleep anywhere but her own bed. Even when she’s gone on extended away missions, Naomi’s interim caretakers have stayed in her own quarters. She also doesn’t want Naomi to become confused and distressed at my appearance in their quarters in the morning. She hasn’t disclosed our status to her yet because of the prevailing rumors circulating within the crew. And, as you know, my ‘quarters,’ such as they are, are not sufficiently private.”

“I get that. So what you’re leading up to is that you want to borrow my quarters?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t want to impose, but I know you have an alternate sleeping arrangement available, and given the current culture onboard, it would not appear out of the ordinary for either Ensign Wildman or I to be seen entering or exiting your quarters at odd hours.”

“I’m not saying no, but I guess I don’t hear as many rumors as you do. Why wouldn’t people think it’s weird seeing Wildman coming and going from my quarters?”

“Ah,” Seven says. “The latest theory is that you are in a committed relationship with me but you are also casually copulating with Ensign Wildman.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know precisely. Perhaps because you were seen together last week at Sandrine’s, talking heatedly, and then you both left at approximately the same time not long afterward.”

“Fucking A. People will believe anything but the truth.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, anyway. Sunday night ought to work for me. Does that work for you two?”

“Yes. I think so,” Seven says.”Now. What are you distressed about?”

“I haven’t discussed it with the Captain yet, but I think it’s time to tell Chakotay.”

Chakotay is her oldest friend. They’ve been through so much together. And now. And now, B’Elanna’s fucking the woman he’s in love with. B’Elanna’s in love with the woman he’s in love with. The woman he’s in love with is in love with her instead, fucking her instead. 

And he doesn’t know any of that. He’s in his own world, worried about B’Elanna’s burgeoning relationship with Seven, believing the rumors. Being protective of her.

It feels so awful deceiving him like this. Is this how Seven as de Neuf had felt as she’d been fucking Katrine in the pantry of the Coeur de Lion, full well knowing that Brigitte loved Katrine? 

No. Probably not. The general situation had been similar, but de Neuf had been an outsider thrown into the little Resistance movement at Saint Claire, and she’d reasonably had zero regard for Brigitte and her feelings. 

Whereas here in real life, Chakotay is someone B’Elanna cares about.

Seven nods, says,

“The Commander handles personnel issues.” B’Elanna’s about to say this is more than just a personnel issue, but Seven continues: “You’re worried about the effect this revelation will have on your friendship with Commander Chakotay. Because Commander Chakotay harbors romantic feelings toward Captain Janeway that are not reciprocated.” A pause. “An unfortunate situation. But I do agree that he should be informed, both because he requires the information to create the most efficient duty rosters and because he is personally involved.”


End file.
